Altar of Passage
by La Aardvark
Summary: Leaving a home on the CS Radiant in favor of survival, the beleaguered crew encounter Flood, New Covenant forces and other hazards as they struggle to make their way to home ground. Official sequel to Sangheili Polvora
1. For Love

**Segment One: For Love**

**Command Station Radiant**

**November 1, 2552, Sol Relative Time**

Thunder echoed down the wrinkled corridor. Metal shrieked, screaming in torment before some of it vaporized. For seven of those listening, it was the last thing they heard before the integrity of the hull around them breached, and they were all sucked out into vacuum. Four of them never got as far as six feet into freefall before the intense heat dissolved them to a gaseous cloud of atoms. Weapons, equipment, armor. Bones, flesh… it was all gone. The others cooked, and died a less sudden death, but still quick enough to not realize it was over.

Automatic protocols had long since been exhausted, and the only resort they had had left was to move sections of hull to cover the habited areas. The Brutes didn't seem to take the hint. Retrofitted ship guns pounded out a rhythm, returning fire at the behest of an AI, but the vessels tormenting the station were not so easily stopped. Their quarry was missing, whatever in the gods' forsaken universe it had been in the first place, and now they were mad, shooting without prejudice and conviction, willing it all to spread across the stars like so much shrapnel.

Thousands had died, hundreds never seeing an enemy face. Enin 'Lygotee kept moving. There was little else he could do- Sangheili warriors swarmed around him, some of them wearing atmospherical equipment, others not. One or two only had parts of their armor. One by one they overhanded across the wall opposite the new breach, determined to make the last bay.

Most had left; there was nothing worth defending here anymore. Hydroponics had blown out weeks ago, leaving their air limited, often tainted with the scent of decay, of the dying, and blood. The smell was most pungent and overpowering in the three medical chambers they had left. Reduced at last count to one thousand three hundred Elites, and one thousand six hundred and forty Grunts, the Command Station was beyond empty. If everything was cooperating at this moment, the evacuation would leave a spare three hundred Elites and maybe all of seventy Grunts. Even at that count they were filing out, hunting up every detachable sector, every fightercraft, every dropship or patrol, and using them as lifeboats.

'Lygotee was grateful he was already past the breached area, as he knew he would not have been able to cross it the way the others were… not with the burden in his arms. Five decks of destroyed corridor and a bay long ago emptied passed them, until at last the bay where some small ships still remained opened up before them.

'Lygotee secured a place for himself on the nearest one that still had room for him when he got to it, but first he strapped his burden down. If she lived, maybe their exchange of life-debt would be even. It didn't matter. She had been there for him, done it all for him, in an effort to keep him alive, only to end up the way she was now- neurologically static. It was a strange thing to be, to him. But then, the little female had never been as normal as anyone around her had always thought.

Their whole team was gone, dying one by one until it was only her and him. How she had maintained long enough to get this far was a marvel, and a mystery. Rkwa 'Lavuree had opened his eyes to the improbable. 'Lygotee watched in silence as more of his kind filed onto the ship, but none here questioned why the warrior at his side had not been granted a mercy killing. She was comatose, but he didn't care. He owed it to her to try, even if it be in vain, and to wait for her to waken. Her physical injuries had healed, but if this had any effect on her mind, it didn't show.

'Lygotee settled into a niche beside her still form, and clung to it, as more than the craft was designed to carry piled in. There was no need to bother with weight limits, as there was no gravity in space and no haven left to run to on the station anymore. If anyone stayed behind, they would die, and there would be no help for it. There was only one road out of this meat grinder, and that road was hazardous indeed.

For himself, 'Lygotee would have rathered not participate, but it was run and fight, or die in hiding in a place that wasn't really hidden. The Brutes would never stop coming. Here lay prey, wounded and dying, easy pickings to gloat over from a comfortable distance. The Sangheili had despised the situation directly after it had arisen.

Finally, the doors closed, and the vessel pressurized. 'Lavuree muttered a tune to himself as he felt the craft begin to move. That sensation would leave after they had escaped the bay, and the artificial gravity of the inside of the bay. He could only pray that he wasn't shot out of the sky between points by the quartet of Brute cruisers.

Silence enveloped them. 'Lygotee ceased his tune, and listened to the collected breaths of those around him.

"Tell me of her, brother."

He turned his head. An Elite clad in blood-rusted red armor sat to his left. "Of who?" He asked.

He received a wan smile. "Your companion, there… the female you refuse to leave behind. Is she your mate?"

'Lygotee shook his head. "No."

"What brought her this far from the colonies?" He was asking.

"I don't know." 'Lygotee answered, honestly. "She came into the fleets of the Covenant for reasons only she knows of, but increasingly I am convinced she remained there because of me."

There came a light chuckle from around him. "She seems an exotic one, to me. Her skin is as white as talc. Somehow she makes that standard armor look as bizarre as she."

"She used to rub ink into her skin." 'Lygotee said. "She used to hide, right there in plain sight, as one of us, as a male, so she could stay. The gods only know what drives her."

"Yet you cling to her fading form like a sibling might."

"She is all that remains of my team." 'Lygotee informed him. "She fought by my side for so long it became second nature to me to fall back upon her wit."

"How did she fall?" Another warrior asked.

"Do any of you remember the Proclamation Chamber?" 'Lygotee asked. "And how the falling pillars failed to crush you?"

Mutterings rippled across the tight quarters around him. Several made agreeing noises. One professed openly to having been there. "Was it she who made some device to defy the graviton generators in the area?"

"No." 'Lygotee sighed. "She held them only with her mind."

Silence. Someone dared to chuckle, as if thinking the notion ludicrous, but despite the cramped conditions, 'Lygotee found them and tore them from their place against the wall to force them to the floor, under the hooves of nearly a dozen other Elites. "Do not dare to even think of ridiculing her! She is by far the more powerful of any here this day! I will not tolerate any of you to sully her honor or her prowess, lest she wake to wreak it upon you." 'Lygotee snarled.

Getting up proved more of a challenge than 'Lygotee could have managed alone, but once back upright, the accosted Elite stared hard into the Commander's eyes. There he found no apology, no sway from his ground. He would do this all day if he saw need. Backing up a step, the Elite nodded his head. "I cede."

"Well that you do." 'Lygotee snapped, elbowing back to where he had been before. "'Lavuree has done more for the Elites on that station than any six of the rest of you put together." Settling there, he turned back to see them all. Each one was looking back, the gentle hum of the power coils the only noise between them. "This is why I preserve her." He added, quietly. "This is why I refuse her to be so lightly denied a chance to return to what she once was. If you held in your hand the most powerful weapon imaginable, would you so callously toss it aside if it were to fail you, just once, after years and years of faithful duty, sparing you loss and death countless times over? Would you throw away your one hope, when it might by some miracle return to action?"

No one answered him.

"The answer is you wouldn't." 'Lavuree said, softly. "None of you, you wouldn't."

"What hope is there, when as we are we go to attempt a thing never before done, where many of us may not live?" Someone else asked.

"That," 'Lygotee turned in their direction. "is called faith, brother."

--- --- ---

Brutes tried to plug the onslaught with their body mass, but the push was just too great. Elites flowed onto the decks, hacking brutally at anything that had hair and a muzzle. Grunts followed this plowing spearhead, killing the ones that got trampled but had been left alive. The sheer press of bodies often caused individuals on both sides of the battle to drop, passed out from the crush that had denied them room to draw a breath. The fighting would open up later, but for now it was just important to get inside. The Brutes were just a small problem for being in the way.

While some of them were able to slide into bays, others had to latch to the hull and burn through, creating choke-points in certain hull-side hallways. 'Lygotee came out of his ride expecting something more than just being able to run to wherever he saw fit to. The crew had not come here, yet, and the way was clear. He cast a look back into the vessel he'd been in a moment ago, wondering if it was wise to leave 'Lavuree unattended. He wouldn't be able to move her safely to a medical chamber until all the Brutes had been seen to, but leaving her here alone wasn't much better.

He sighed. There was always something, even if it had been manageable back in the old days. Unggoy surged past, but only after he realized they were in a panicked disarray did he turn, but by then it was almost too late. The Brute met his gaze a second before pounding him in the chest with a fist, hard enough to make his shields sizzle, reduced to a quarter charge capacity. 'Lygotee rolled with the blow, winded but not beaten. Coming back to his hooves, he straightened, and lifted his rifle, loosing several rounds into the Brute's face before the gap was again closed between them, leaving grappling and wrestling room only. 'Lygotee snarled, tearing the beast from him, and slammed it's ugly head into the wall before in turn being taken by the neck and lifted into the ceiling. He coiled and kicked out, freeing himself, before being dropped unceremoniously onto the floor. 'Lygotee struck out, seizing an ankle, and yanked it out from under the staggered Brute. Down, the Elite was able to jump onto his enemy and stab the unfortunate combatant's eyes right out of their sockets with his claws.

Ahead, he could see more Jiralhanae were coming, the bulk of this one's dispatch. He had to finish with it quickly or he would be overwhelmed. Knowing the way the Brutes liked to operate, they were as liable to tear his limbs off as shoot him down. 'Lygotee used his grasp of his opponent's head to smash it against the floor repeatedly while fending off punches to his head and shoulders. Pulling his legs up, he planted his hooves on the floor, and lifted the Brute from the floor by his head. Just as 'Lygotee got the creature up, the others opened fire. The barrage proved short when they realized they had one of their own in their sights, but by then the beleagured Brute in 'Lygotee's hands had expired; when distracted by the sudden onslaught from behind, it had failed to note what the Elite holding his head was doing.

Shoving the Brute's head down, he had brought up a knee, and buried it under it's ribcage, completely crushing the solar plexus. 'Lygotee let the body drop, unwilling to hold the heavy thing up, but then he had to deal with a renewed barrage of gunfire from all of the Brute's friends.

Dodging proved of little help, so he ducked back into the ship he'd arrived in. Here there was cover, and a choke-point, but whether he could deal with that many Brutes alone was still in question. 'Lygotee cast a look back at Rkwa, pausing to consider. If he failed now, it would be the end of them both. Motion off to the side gained his attention, and he turned, to find himself looking down the open maw of a large Brute. Flanking him, 'Lygotee realized, were Kig-yar. He sighed, frustrated.

"Brilliant."

--- --- ---

Off to the left were the Kig-yar, on the right were some Unggoy. Jiralhanae flanked both positions, as the lesser species shuffled between them. The doors here were sealed, but that didn't seem to matter much according to the last reports. Rangor, Ship Master of the _Glacial Hieroglyph_, understood that if he lost his ship, he would never hear the end of it. Not only that, but he was liable to lose his place in the Great Journey as well, labeled a heretic for failing to stop the filthy Sangheili whom he could have sworn didn't have that many boarding craft.

They were like parasitical insects, flooding through every crack and crevice, even making some of their own to pass through. Like water, eroding through everything. Like… Rangor snarled to himself at the thought. Like the Flood. He'd seen some Flood combat forms, some of the infection forms, some of the carrier forms. But he'd never seen them in the quantities that they were supposedly renowned for.

It was, he mused, likely a learned behavior, learned from these accursed Sangheili. They weren't desperate; they were crafty, tricky bastards, setting up so they only looked frail and wounded, weakened from battle, so they might snare some good ships to spread from this place with. Sadly, the trap had worked, and while his ship's guns had been occupied with their station, they had flown the gap and flooded his ship. Doubtless there were hundreds more on all the others too- he was getting reports in from the _Ungracious Accolade_ to confirm this- he supposed the _Eternal Inundation_ and the _Inspirit Symbol_ weren't saying anything because they were too busy with the boarders. It was too late to shoot the accursed ships out of the sky, as there were none left out far enough to shoot at. They were all simply too close, attached to the hulls, to do much about. It was a dirty trick by a filthy race, devised to bring the New Covenant to its knees.

Rangor snarled at a fellow Brute. Well, it wasn't going to work. This time, they would all die, and he would fly his flag high and with pride as he left this place, to show the Prophets what victories he had brought them, and he would earn his place at their side when the Great Journey came to pass. Something slammed into the door leading to the aft quarter, but he had a feeling it wasn't the Huragok knocking. Turning his attention that way, he snapped orders for the Unggoy to obtain a front rank across that entryway, and passed behind the rank of Brutes as they aimed their weapons that way. Anything that came through that door was going to get mowed down before it realized the door was open. Rangor grunted in satisfaction, pacing back a few steps to see the whole thing better. Suddenly before he could flinch the door behind him erupted violently instead, blowing chunks out of his thick hide and flattening him to the floor.

Once the concussion blast wave was past, Rangor rolled to his feet again, turning to see what had caused that massive breach, in time to be mowed down himself, by a fervent influx of copious amounts of Unggoy. Unggoy!! Did his own think to turn on him and live? Rangor pressed against the push, fighting to keep his feet, but even as he tried he realized he was being cut to ribbons by all the loose needles flying in the air. Snarling, Rangor tore a Grunt from the floor, and threw it at a nearby Brute to deal with, but at the same time realized he was looking at an altogether new wave of enemy.

Elites charged into the room, sometimes flying over the heads of the Unggoy come before them, latching onto a handy Brute and bringing it down with them. Rangor caught the warrior that flew at him, twisted his skinny neck and let him fall across a running Unggoy. It didn't matter who was on whose side now- they were shown as a traitorous species, and would die with the rest. Behind him, a methane tank popped open.

He turned, thinking someone had tried to hit him melee with a needler. Flames broiled up past his face, engulfing his head. It was the last thing he ever saw.


	2. Forever A Failure

**Segment Two: Forever A Failure**

Section One: Bair Lurímee 

**June 2, 2393: Sol Relative Time**

**Sangheili Colony World Amdrev**

Silence flowed like a little river for the majority of the night, but like most silences it could not last for long. A single, blood-curdling scream pierced the still night air like a sharp knife sliding through flesh in search of lifeblood. The sound of feathers ruffling upon the lone little avian responsible for the cry followed the scream shortly, as the creature preened and sorted through its personal collection of flight-aiding membranous stems.

For a brief moment the silence was permitted to return, before the little avian took up to the air and began to fly from its perch in the tree, from whence it had issued the cry that was more suited to the throat of a dying sentient. The avian made good time in leaving the area, but it was not the only thing that had been there at that time. Indeed just such a sentient creature lay propped against the trunk of the self same tree in which the avian had perched, looking up at the sky through its branches. The stars were all out in clear view, each shining according to distance and size, without a single vapor wisp of precipitation to slight the image.

Accordingly, bug song echoed across the glen beyond the reach of the tree's outermost branches, to the right and rear of where the abandoned lone sentient creature now sat. Thick underbrush and towering trees, each spreading and reaching for as much sky as they might capture, took up all other directions. The forest was old, had been there since before the colony planted upon the planet had even prospected here. In truth there was little reason to be there, let alone at night, where native predatory animals might attempt a meal upon whomever they aspired to catch. But reason there was, though the circumstances were rather unique.

Death to those who sought the destruction of the Sangheili way of life. Death also, it would seem, to those who fought to maintain it, as no war was ever fought where only one side suffered loss to some degree. The Sangheili warrior at the base of the tree staring up at the night sky on the colony world understood he had failed, in dying he had allowed many things he could have prevented in the future to occur without check or protest. And as much as it grieved him to own this knowledge, he understood also he had not failed his current mission, if it had cost him his own life; the mission was complete, a success and an irreversible medium. Elimination had been the only option for some, but he knew he could never be accused of leaving anything half-done for others to clean up.

He hated to go out where he would be forgotten, but some things just had to be, and he had understood the meaning of that when he took the oath that led him here today. He knew they would need to find his body in order to retrieve certain items of worth and value to the cause the group stood for, things he had carefully taken from the ownership of the one who was dead by his hand… things he had hoped to return to them himself as he had also hoped to return himself to them, as well. They had liked him- many of them were his friends, trusted colleagues as well as fellow team members.

Dozens of them had hidden throughout the Fleets of the Covenant, but no one could know… no one could find them before their real mission was done, and they all knew that would not be possible to complete within years of now… whatever he left could not point at them even slightly, as he knew above all doubt that the chances of his own finding him before some other member of the Covenant did were very slim.

So he chose his words with care, speaking slowly and smoothly to keep the pain of his fatal injury from his voice as he made his report into a recording device… it was annoyingly vague, he knew, but there was no help for it. He couldn't put forth anything of value in good conscience and expect it not to fall into the wrong hands. It would be just his luck, too… that even after his death he might not know rest. No, he wouldn't say anything incriminating, but he had to keep in mind that the right ears would hear it in the end. He could say some things- doubtless they already knew what he'd done, what he was responsible for, he knew there had been someone that had seen him escaping. But he couldn't say everything.

"… this is Special Operations code _flight of honor_ reporting. I don't think I may last too much longer so I will need to leave things out, to keep this brief and to the point. I was able to complete my mission, as you must by now know, but what you may not know is the extent of my success or failure, depending on department. All subsequent reports following this incident will doubtless have been edited to suppress either panic or public reaction and uprising. Here are the details, as per fact and in order…" Whatever he said, whatever else happened, whatever became of the results of his work… it was all _for the honor of the Mirratord. _

**Covenant Ship Cluster **_**Illustrated Deliverance**_

**Covenant Cruiser **_**Glacial Hieroglyph **_

**November 2, 2552, Sol Relative Time **

The names of the fallen echoed through his weary head like hammers against a bell big enough for him to stand inside of. He knew some of them, most of them. For a moment he wondered if he weren't one of them, but in the end he discovered he could feel physical pain, and through the mental haze of having been beaten nearly to death he realized that he was, in fact, still alive as yet.

That sucked.

Sound began to assault his ears, but it seemed to be unnaturally amplified, so he tried not to listen to it until he could sort out his own thoughts and figure out what his current state of being was. Memory of his last hostile encounter- namely, the one that he'd brought upon himself for not sticking with the other warriors- seemed fuzzy at first, but the more he thought about it the more it came back to him, though having taken more than a few heavy blows to the head had made the clarity of those memories slightly blurred, as his head was turned too fast to see what passed before his eyes and various degrees of pain clouded his attention to details like that.

He'd put up a pretty good fight, he supposed, as there was a memory of breaking one Jiralhanae neck and smashing a Kig-yar on the wall… but there had been more than just those two to contend with, and while he remembered- or thought he did- injuring another of the Brutes, that memory didn't include another infliction on his part to the specified enemy that would have killed him before much of it became unrecognizable as more a dazed, half-conscious blur.

So why then was he still alive? Testing, he tried to move an arm, and finding it responsive, the hand at the end of said arm. If he'd been transferred to a cell block for some reason that he could determine later on, then the texture of the floor beneath him would be different, if slightly, from standard corridor or operations chamber flooring. It was a detail he'd noticed some years ago when he'd spent a good deal of time in both locations with ample opportunity to scrutinize everything. The brig had, at the time, been converted into a place where wounded were being stashed as the rest of the ship scrambled to keep from blowing to bits.

Instead, his fingers found another Sangheili hand, which curled firmly around his. Groggily, and still slightly disoriented, Enin 'Lygotee opened his eyes to see who was there. Brilliant pale amethyst eyes caught his gaze, set like rare gems in a white Sangheili face.

"Welcome back, Commander." The slight female whispered softly to him. "The world awaits you."

--- --- ---

Rains of micrometeorites sparkled against the fore view plating, a billion and more myopic diamonds decorating the scene. Till 'Auchínee wasn't watching. A partly crippled survivor of the battle that had killed his superior, Till had been Dial M'akamee's second in command. For now, he was little more than in the way, though, as his warriors cleaned out the mess they had made of the Brute command crew. He didn't mind it so much… fully half of his face nolonger responded to stimuli, though it twitched on its own on occasion, and the ragged, deep scar across the back of his neck leading down through his shoulder blade had cost him primary use of that arm. He could still close his fist, and bend it slightly at the elbow, just a little, but wielding weaponry with it was out of the question. He couldn't even raise a cup of liquid with that arm.

In his other, though, he rolled a standard issue sword hilt, over and over and over. The feel of the metal grip rolling against his palm had much the same effect for him as chiming meditation exercise balls had on some. Partly something to keep his hand from being idle, partly for stress relief, the motions took little to no mental commitment, although if he gave it thought it also took his mind off more pressing, stressful matters for a time. Till looked over when another Elite strode through the Command doors, pausing to nod at the officer before moving past him to speak with another of the lesser ranking warriors deeper in the broad room.

Briefly he wondered how many of his people had survived the assault on the quartet of ships, but as yet the cruisers had not begun trying to turn on one another even though no word had crossed that either the Brutes or Elites had won, on each ship. He hated to call out to them as yet, for this reason, as one or more might still have its Brute command staff and thus control over the ship's weapons. If he had to, he would order an attacker shot down, but he knew there were members of the Radiant's crew on each, and the destruction of any one of the vessels would kill the boarding parties, too.

To Till, enough had become too much quickly, and he couldn't bear to think that more of his warriors would have to die because he'd killed them. Having the Brutes hammering on them was bad enough, especially with no way to beat back. It wouldn't be that long before there simply were no more left to be killed anymore. Till turned to see the warrior again when he turned from that first conversation to look at him. His expression changed slightly when he received a salute, to mild interest. It had been a good while since anything he said had mattered much. The battles they had been fighting had been more of the style each for himself- and so bereft of a means to change that until now, they had suffered for it.

"The ship is now under your command, sir." The warrior told him. "But we are still counting our losses… some of them are proving hard to find."

"That is acceptable, for now, 'Sendavilee." Till remarked. "I wonder more about the other ships… now that this one is empty, do we wait, or do we fly to them and aid our brothers more directly?"

"That decision is not mine to make, sir." Awrkon 'Sendavilee answered, speculatively. "What are your orders, sir?"

Till smiled at him, remembering when things had been easier… pushed to the edge of sanity, each one of them was quite willing and ready for a change of pace… and a change of terrain on their playing field. "That depends on the contents of a report I have yet to receive, 'Sendavilee."

"What report would this be, sir?" The warrior asked.

"How many are we, and can we muster our weakened state one more time?"

'Sendavilee shook his head. "I haven't heard that number, nor that answer, sir… I will go and see if it cannot be procured." He nodded to Till, and went past.

Till watched him go, then spent a moment picking at the dried Brute blood on his armor, with his bad hand. It was only an hour old, he supposed, and already it was dried enough to lift at the behest of his claws instead of spreading and smearing. Either the Brute had had some thick blood, or the humidity on the ship was low. Till looked at his claws, and ran one of his thumbs under the claw on a finger. Flicking away the resulting ball of gummy blood the size of an English pea, Till let his hand rest at his side, and looked up, at the scrolling data on the holographic projectors. He was ringed by them, where he was now, and had an almost panoramic view of all the systems of the ship. Some were in standby, some active, others shut down. Till blew a weary sigh, wishing for a moment of true peace in which he might procure some decent sleep that didn't have to be so light he woke at the sound of a footfall three halls away.

He was tired, they all were, he knew, but there was no time as yet to rest until this new engagement was decided. Win or lose, it needed to be overwith before anyone could relax. Till turned back towards the door, surprised there was so much traffic, and realized it was 'Sendavilee, come back again.

"Five score, sir… with two score fallen, and fifty-seven counted as missing." He reported.

"That was remarkably fast." Till commented. "Why are there missing?"

"Some of our number were separated from the others either during or by the fighting, sir, and from there they either wandered farther or were dragged there." He was about to say more, but the door he had just entered through reopened, and an ear-splitting roar filled up the space once meant for sable words. Till felt frozen against his will by horror as he watched from too far away to stop it as the two Brutes welled up behind 'Sendavilee, and smashed their fists into him simultaneously. Till came flying across the spanse between them as 'Sendavilee crumpled to the floor, the Commander's energy sword flaring to life. Plasma fire from across the room met him at his target, splashing almost harmlessly on the mongering duo. He deftly sliced lengths from one's arms, well aware he couldn't finish them one at a time, even as he plunged the sword through the Brute's chest. Hands better described as paws clamped around his head, and wrenched back and to the side, but for all his frantic slashing with his sword, he couldn't get free enough to even see past the hairy fingers over his eyes.

He heard the Brute start to wind up to another roar, twisting and yanking Till's head in all directions trying to break his neck. Till did his best to turn with the motions of his captor, though even as he tightened all the muscles in his back and pulled himself up over the Brute's head, he felt the bones in his neck strain. A small crunch at the base of his skull told him he'd stressed not only the location of his vertebrae but also his luck.

There he stood, perched propped on the back of the Brute's shoulders, the Brute adamantly refusing to let go, and the two of them playing a war of wills and muscle as one tried to throw the Sangheili behind it away off ahead, and the other tried to pull in the other direction. Pain rippled down through his old injury, the scar a deep ugly violet in color as his blood fired through it. Till hacked brutally with the sword in his hand, until he hit a tendon in the Brute's armpit, and crashed for it to the floor at the Brute's back. Stunned by the sudden impact, Till lay still for a time, staring up at the Brute as it staggered away from the suddenly freed barrage of rifle and carbine ammunition. Finally, at last, it fell, emitting a weird moan as it slid into a heap on the floor bare feet from Till.

The Elites closed the gap at a run, one foregoing Till in favor of 'Sendavilee as the other two paused beside Till. Blinking dazedly up at them, he stammered, "He said there were no more… he said there were…"

"Easy, Commander." One of the Elites instructed. "You may have survived that fight, but you may yet still be in danger of dislocating a vital bone."

"Awrkon?" Till turned his head to see the new speaker, as one warrior lifted the shoulders of the other. 'Sendavilee's arms fell in an odd manner when his shoulders left the floor, and Till turned away. Breath choked by pain escaped the fallen warrior, as he fought air past shattered collarbones. If they ever really healed, they would never do so correctly. Peeling himself from the floor and the protests of the pair of Sangheili at his own sides, Till rose to a knee, and stepped the three paces across to 'Sendavilee on them.

"You surprise me, 'Sendavilee." He mentioned, feeling a pounding beginning to form in his head. "Did I hear you wrong when I heard you say the ship was ours now?"

"I…" He gasped. "… am sorry, sir…"

"It was not your fault… it is expected that a small number would get past us for a short time. But these two are now dead, and I need you back on your toes." Till worked his mandibles, feeling the relaxed strain put on his neck. "See about getting that healed."

'Sendavilee tried to nod, breathing now through his teeth. "Yes sir."

"You should have this looked at, Commander…" The Elite on Till's left advised, but Till shouldered him away.

"Make sure 'Sendavilee makes it to the medical. I will finish here and follow him when I am finished." Till ordered, pressing to his hooves again. "Go on." He wavered for a moment, before resting his good hand on his bad arm's elbow. Reluctant, but obedient, the trio of warriors lifted 'Sendavilee and ferried him away, leaving Till all alone on the Command Deck. He looked around, and then down at the two Brutes, one less than presentable in pieces, the other covered in plasma burns and carbine-bolt holes. Slowly, he worked his head around, feeling what damages might have been rendered. At least, Till mused, now he couldn't feel his other woes. It wasn't much of an improvement, but at least all his pain had consolidated into the one headache for now.

"Be this a day of days, as likened to those of our ancestors." He whispered into the silence. "It is proven, though, to be one royal pain in the neck."


	3. Gaining Respect

**Segment Three: Gaining Respect**

**Section Two: Odril 'Gethremilee**

**June 2, 2433: Sol Relative Time**

**Sangheili Colony World Amdrev**

Forty years after the fall of the old minister, the legacy remained, and even the mark of the cruel leader could still be seen on the corners of the old residence. What was inspiring about the story surrounding the ancient and corroding structure was how the minister had begun. Young and ambitious, at first, naïve and determined to make a difference… and then growing old and seasoned under a stern tutelage that saw him to the top, where he was goaded and threatened and blindsided, stripped down and remade, forced into a new mold, until nothing remained of the old, the original, Sangheili diplomat.

He had had an open mind and an open heart, a gracious mate and a strong house. His bloodline was strong and desirable, hers reliable and steadfast. There was everything either could have needed, until the push and pull of those already in power took over and dealt the house to ruin. The minister was brought down by Sangheili hands, his mate killing herself to escape the madness that had been slowly consuming her due to all the cloak-and-dagger dealings the minister had been swimming in. The house had sat empty ever since then.

The city of Rwmithan shone in the early morning sun, the dew casting a reflective hue on even the dullest of surfaces. Soon it would burn off… Vorkimidea lifted her eyes to see the streaks of silver lining the sky, aware the night was over. The city had begun to stir; but this day was slightly unlike other days, a sight more significant than the day before. Today the Academy would be accepting new recruits, and there would be a parade of people, all clad in white and forsaking the lines that made them in favor of a new start as a warrior of the Covenant.

Someday, perhaps, she might know one or two who gained entrance. It happened every year, and every year more of the young ones went away, though at times some of them would return to visit their respective houses- this was not liable to happen until many decades later, however, and all those that she had seen come home she had not seen leaving through the Academy gates. She wasn't old enough for that, at only seventeen. Vorkimidea pulled her shawl over her shoulders and put hoof to floor in the first steps towards the soon-to-be bustling streets. The morning meal would be procured along the way, as the parade would happen bright and early and she hated missing it. This year she thought she might guess who would be chosen, who would be refused, who would have to wait until next year.

Vorkimidea stepped out onto the street directly into a throng of already quick-moving people, though most of these would be spectators- few if any could be seen wearing white. The young Sangheili female strode meaningfully towards the Academy gates, beginning to wonder if the parade would gather from the crowds elsewhere, and the energy of expectation and eagerness would pass her by. It was always a thrill, if a cheap one, to feel the mood of the crowd on this day each year. It was like a holiday where those of all color and creed could all relate to the same celebration. She was still several blocks from the Academy when she spotted the mass of white slithering through the crowds a street over- and she quickly angled that way, smiling eagerly and light on her hooves. Her brightest robes had been set aside for this day, but she would need to be careful- it was a white dress, though it had trimmings unlike the robes of the parade marchers, and she needn't be selected from the crowd for standing too near them by accident. If it did occur, however, there would be little to hold her back and walking in their center was enough to spike her system with adrenalin. To be one of them! To feel that excitement…

When the Academy gates became visible, Vorkimidea sifted from the crowd of probates, aware her thrill ride was over, and she needed to separate from them before the gates opened and the selection process began. At the edge of the crowd, Vorkimidea stood tall, her slender, almost gaunt frame giving her a masculine appearance to the skimming observer. She was overly tall for a female, and not especially shapely, though her bloodlines giving her a big skeletal structure and strong stance. The breadth of her shoulders made her figure seem bigger than it was- Vorkimidea outsized some males her age.

At last the parade march was over, and the gates swung open. The Elites clad in the garb of the selectors strode forth and began to pick out their choices. The final four were called by name, after the rest had gone, and the residents of the city cheered their departure until the gates had closed again. Vorkimidea's smile faded slightly. She felt she was the only one sad to see them go, these young males and on occasion a female too, those who would never see their homes again and those who would be lucky to.

The Academy posed a threat to the bloodlines, yet it also symbolized a form of freedom. Only those who chose to went to these gates wearing the white robes and black sash; no one forced them to. And there was no shortage of eager volunteers, each year from each crop of children out of the houses of the city-dwellers.

Vorkimidea turned from the gates, and walked to the market, feeling the attitudes of the crowd as it dispersed and flowed away like a wave on the sands, flowing back from whence it came after seeking the shore. It was the same every year- the thrill and excitement of the parade was always mitigated by the emotional drain the people suffered once the gates had closed again. They knew as did she that some of those soon-to-be warriors would die out there, deep in the unknown regions being explored by the fleets of the Covenant. She was conflicted for this reason about knowing them too well.

She longed for companionship, for a friend, but she knew they would all eventually leave and she would be alone once again. Should she dismiss the losses she would doubtless suffer and do it anyway? Or maintain her current pain and avoid that other one that would make itself known once the pleasure of company was gone? Not everyone went to the Academy. Some were rejected year after year until they were too old to join and had to find something else to do with their lives. Vorkimidea had no guarantees.

She found herself often tempted to try that road, test her measure against it, but she was the carrier of her bloodline and the responsibility could not be easily shirked. At the market, while the tender of the stock was busy with another, Vorkimidea lifted several articles of edibles and took them to her abode without exchanging word with anyone. It was her way; she had nothing to give, they had nothing to take. She was very good at not being caught, but what the authorities might do to her if she ever was was still in debate. Given time she might amend this habit, but it was an old one, and she had not spoken with anyone of merit and had not been courting at all ever before, so it was not liable to be soon. Any children she might have someday would never know of it, but she had none, neither a mate, and had none foreseen on the horizon.

Within the ancient walls of her house she sat alone, meditating in the silence as she slowly prepared a small meal. Barely had she begun to eat then she was disturbed by a presence on the bottom floor of the two-story structure, and was forced to leave it to investigate the matter.

"You can see it has been falling slowly down for a long time." The voice carried well, spoken with enough volume to nearly echo in the mostly empty antechamber.

The response sounded coarse by comparison, though not in tone. It was worn, possibly from a lot of shouting. "I see a large crack in the wall there, yes. When did this first come to mind?"

The two males had entered without permission, but the place was thought to be unoccupied. All but the shell itself had been sold at auction following the loss of all ownership, but it was her home now. Vorkimidea withdrew from their sightline, wary and listening.

"Perhaps the last day of Zenith. Do you suppose they will tear it down?"

"If they do, it would be a waste- why not re-level the foundation, secure the cross work and fill it out from there? The base materials are all still sturdy, and unless there is a hole somewhere in the roof it ought to be in good condition."

The first speaker seemed to think this over. "Who would want such a place?"

"Not I… but then I would hold no desire for a place such as what you currently own, and it has everything going for it."

There was an amused laugh, and the two speakers receded from the house. "Tomorrow the Engineers will fall into orbit and we may see what the guild has to say about a desolate house."

Vorkimidea rested her head on the wall beside her. They were going to take her home from her, and hadn't even asked her opinion. It was just as well- the Engineering Guild did not have many Huragok Engineers in it, but rather was compiled of designers, constructors and crafters from all the races who chose that profession and became good enough at it. They did not often move from planet to planet, though.

She sighed and picked herself up, walking back to her abandoned meal to eat. She had always known it would happen eventually. The mansion was not hers, nor was the small estate surrounding it. She only lived there because no one had told her she couldn't.

She would have nowhere else to go when the house changed hands, becoming someone else's humble abode and possibly seeing a more honorable occupant. Vorkimidea held no delusions- without familial ties, she was as good as worthless, the only thing keeping her from complete destitution being the memory of having it once before. From a line of well-respected farmers, Vorkimidea had spent the first eight years of her life in relative peace- she and her younger sister had everything they could dream of wanting. But when their farmstead drowned in an overly wet rainy season and their house burned down directly after, there was nothing left to dream of. She remembered the whole affair, remembered how that fire got started- a simple lamp, knocked over in passing, and she remembered distinctly how it had seemed to her at the time that it was unimaginable how such a simple little thing could go so wrong so fast. Her parents had died in the fire trying to stop it, and in trying to get to the city where their produce was sold her little sister had succumbed to the elements.

Vorkimidea had often wondered what purpose had been served to anyone by killing them all in such a way, but she knew somewhere she still had family, though where they might be was beyond her. For sure there was an uncle and his mate on the colony, but she knew he wasn't in this city and she had no way to seek him out.

For now, she was content to remain where she was, as it wasn't terribly hard to get by even without a claim on station. But she hated sleeping on the street, and if the house she was in sold, that was where she would be.

The following day passed, but without more visitors and without incident. She wondered what the two Sangheili had been speaking for if nothing would come of their words. Vorkimidea spent the season searching for a backup, some other shelter to harbor her so she might not need to stay in the rain. When she located a probable place, she moved most of her things there and fortified it as a retreat she could go to if and when she was ever evicted from her favored residence. She liked the old house- it gave her a sense of belonging, a sense of ownership that she knew she would never have without it. That house was her honorific.

Three days before the next parade, Vorkimidea walked up to the house, and directly inside the door was greeted by another Sangheili. Startled, she drew up short.

"I thought we might find you here." He said, softly. "This is not your house."

"It is no one's house, and you have no right to force me out." She answered.

He smiled at her, and she felt chills go down her spine from seeing that wicked expression. She stepped back from him when he reached for her arm, certain above all else she did not want to go wherever he thought he might take her. He followed her retreat, but she kept going, clearing the house backwards and spinning about to run full-tilt down the street. When she was certain she had lost him, she circled back to her secondary hideout, but before she got close enough to even see it she knew it had been found, too, and she had to turn away and go somewhere else. Behind her, she heard the voices of the Sangheili telling one another how they had expected to find the maker of the nest with the nest, or at least for them to return to it eventually.

Vorkimidea heaved a sigh, and kept walking. Her options were limited, but she knew she still had a few. As she walked she wondered what she would do as a last resort- she didn't have a hundred havens around the city. For a time she just let the sun warm her head, walking about the streets as if she were one of the crowd, just another girl with a house behind her and a family to return to. She tipped her head back and smiled at the sky, wishing for something good to happen to her, just once…

"You!"

Vorkimidea's head snapped down, and she locked gazes with the speaker. He squinted at her, but she had already panicked. She broke from the crowd and fled the market streets, quickly realizing she had more than her share of pursuants. In the span of three corners, she counted twelve of them, but it soon dawned on her she had been foolish and wasn't the one they had initially been after. By running, though, she had redirected their attention to the wrong target, and now she would need to either successfully lose them all or explain why she had run. Having sufficient energy, she opted for outrunning them.

This became a problem when she realized at least one of them was gaining on her, and for every dodge she made he gained another few feet. _Warrior_. The name echoed in her mind as she ran, suddenly coming aware that there was no way to evade this one. The rest she could easily lose- she'd done it many times. But the training and mentality of the warrior was something she could not contend with.

Right as he extended his arm and swiped at her over robe, she spun out of it, leaving him with nothing but, and ducked down into a drain. If she was lucky, he wouldn't be able to fit there, but she still wasn't going to stay put to find out. She winced when she heard the telltale splash of hooves diving into water looking for footing, then the strides of that one quick Sangheili pursuing her trail through the darkness of the drain shaft.

His strides were longer than hers, but she could tell just where he was- until the drain met with a grill and she realized she was trapped. Suddenly it nolonger mattered where he was, but where she was. Looking through the grate she could see the end of the drain shaft, and daylight. Turning, she could just make out the silhouette of the warrior following her. Quickly she stepped to the side, and pressed her back to the slimy wall of the circular shaft. Quietly she watched as the male slowed and stepped up to the grill, his expression of confusion showing in the dim light afforded by the reflectiveness of the liquid in the drain. He was right there, close enough to touch, and he had seen her there just a moment before. Reaching up he placed a hand on the grill, exhaling slowly in contemplation.

"Spirits come to the city this day." He muttered. "No living Sangheili could have escaped so completely through this passage."

He couldn't see her? She was concentrating so hard on being invisible and unseen she hadn't realized it had worked. He could have scented her out had he not been impeded by the same thing she was- standing verily atop one another she couldn't smell him, only the wretched scent of the drain they were in. One would not have thought simple street rinse would smell so bad. Vorkimidea looked him over, wondering how long he had been planetside, and when his ship had dropped into orbit, who he had come back to see. He wasn't young- and standing so near she could see every one of the scars he wore, even the one that disappeared down his neck under the collar of his robes.

There was no way of telling what rank he held, or who he was, without asking. And right then she was more interested in getting away free than having her questions answered. She looked down, at his belt, realizing the silver glint there was an energy sword. That alone was sign that he had been around, done some things, but most of all had survived it. Vorkimidea wanted a sword. She wanted to feel the energy as they cut through something nothing else could, wanted to know what raw power felt like, in her grasp.

When the warrior left the grill, he left it without knowing he had stood toe-to-toe with his quarry, and without knowing he had also been removed of his sword. He could get another. She had no access, and it was a prize worth hanging onto. When she heard him leave by the way he had come, she looked at her newly acquired item, and grinned. She wanted to use it, wanted to see it's radiant blade, but was afraid of alerting the doubtless keen ear of that warrior, as it didn't take a genius to know he would know the sound of an active sword anywhere. Still, she could now hear them talking outside the entrance to the drain and she was stuck against the grill.

Finding the toggle on the handle, Vorkimidea held it out, and hoping she wasn't holding it backwards so it severed her arm in half lengthwise when it activated, she pressed. In her mind there was no helping it, and if she was heard screaming she knew she would rather be taken into custody than to have to tend such a wound herself. The electromagnetic hiss of the power flaring to life in the form of a split-bladed sword filled her ears and made her squeak in fear. The noise echoed, and for a moment she shrank, but the sword cast a light that would serve as a tell- especially given the shape of that light in her hand. Realizing the action was stupid, she turned to the grill, sliced it free and powered down the blade as she ran full-tilt over the falling metal even before it could clang to the bottom of the drain shaft. Sword in one hand, the other clenched into a fist, she flew from the end of the shaft going as fast as her legs would move her.

The feeling of exhilaration filled her with the first breath following her exit from the drain, and she sprinted through the woods at the edge of the drain pit she had unwittingly sailed right over. Had she been going any slower she would have fallen into it, and given that the walls were smooth, she would definitely have needed aid to escape _that_. Her long strides were cut short and she turned to a halt when she heard a cry following a rather organic sounding thud.

Looking through the brush she couldn't see anything, but she could sense a feeling of despair. Cautious, she retraced her steps at a swift trot, clearing the treeline in time to witness a set of claws cresting the edge of the cemented pit, sinking in and the arm attached following shortly. The lift looked painful, watching as the warrior pried himself from the pit, obviously having missed it or drawn up too late to avoid falling in. But he was on her side, and it was too deep for anyone to have jumped to the top of.

She looked at him for a moment, debating whether to help him out or not, then decided to do it anyway. Still, she dropped the sword at her side in the brush line first, then moved forward. Vorkimidea knelt at the pit's edge, and wrapped her hands around the warrior's arm, before rocking back, planting her hooves and pulling him almost bodily from the predicament he was in. Once free of the drain pit, he climbed to his own hooves, and turned to see her. She faced him, boldly, though she harbored a fear she wasn't showing.

After he had run his eyes over the length of her, he looked her in the eye. "Thank you."

Vorkimidea tilted her head. "What were you doing in that pit?"

"I was following a ghost… one that took my sword."

She smiled at him, but though it was a guilty expression she knew he took it to be in mockery of his words. "Ghost took your sword, hm? I suppose you wouldn't want a whole lot of people to know that a mere ghost got the better of you, now would you?"

He laughed, softly. "Perhaps. You are awfully young to be out here by yourself. Where is your family?"

Vorkimidea frowned at him. "I am not too young either! I have earned my place. Can you say the same?"

He stiffened for a moment, but relaxed after he had given that some thought. "I can. You must forgive any insult, it was not my intent."

Vorkimidea breathed a silent sigh of relief she didn't let him see. "You should return to your House, proud warrior. They will be missing you." She turned from him and walked away, not wanting to need to dodge any more questions by challenging his honor. She had gotten lucky and she knew it, in that he was not too proud to show humility when it became apparent he had stepped on some toes.

She froze in her tracks, though, grimacing, when he called after her. "Might I know why your eyes are so pale?"

Slowly she turned around. "I don't have an answer for that."

"I have never seen anyone who had eyes quite like yours. What is your name?"

Vorkimidea considered telling him to leave her alone, but in the moment she decided otherwise she realized also that he had yet to recognize her for what she was- not the fleeing individual from the market streets, but as a female. The loss of her over robe left her in a rather common unisex garment, and her frame made it difficult to tell. Right then she realized she could get more done if she maintained that glamour than if she shirked it, and she decided to stall for time to think of a suitable name she could live with for a while. "What would you do with it?"

"Nothing. I am merely curious."

"Will you tell me yours?"

He inclined his head. "An exchange then."

"I am Rkwa." It wasn't entirely alien to her- it was her father's name, though she would need something more than the House of Vor to get much in the way of recognition.

"I am Odril Gethremilee."

"Are you here for the Academy parade?" She blurted.

"I wanted to be there when my son joined the march, yes."

Vorkimidea felt a smile flow across her face. "I have often wondered what it would be like, to march with them, to see the gates open and know I could pass them."

"The first part is exhilarating. The rest is sheer torture, as they forge a warrior out of you. I did not enjoy my training, but looking back I realized I learned more from actual field work than from those teachers."

"They don't teach you to handle combat. They teach you how to learn to handle combat once it finds you." Vorkimidea repeated, wanting to verify that.

"I suppose one might put it that way, and not be wrong. But they do teach you how to fight." He turned and looked across the pit, and drew a breath, but when he looked back again he realized there was no one there- and his fine-tuned warrior's senses hadn't detected anything moving, had not alerted him to her departure. He exhaled, slowly. "Ghosts."

**Covenant Ship Cluster **_**Illustrated Deliverance**_

**Covenant Cruiser **_**Glacial Hieroglyph **_

**November 3, 2552, Sol Relative Time **

Rangor sat hunched, trying just to think past the pain in his eye sockets. The hair and much of the skin on his face was gone, and his lips were scarred to the point of deformity, whereas his eyelids were completely gone. He was a gruesome mess, he knew, and the accursed dark he had been plunged into only made things worse. Thankfully, at least, he hadn't been overly harassed by his captors… although why they had allowed him to live at all was something of a mystery to him.

Most of the heckling had come from his fellow kind, but even though he couldn't see them, he had still wrung that insolent mutt's neck for the insult to his pride as well as his condition. Rangor was in no mood nor any shape to put up with the humor of those around him, and even had it been his own offspring he would not have altered his reaction. It was too much right now, it was all just too much. As it stood at current, he was alone in his cell now, alone with a decaying body. There were a total of six other prisoners, though, and each had added his own threats, complaints, and oaths to the noisy cacophony thundering in the brig block they were in. Rangor wished he could silence the rest of them, too… that noise was almost more than he could bear right now. In place of eyes he had empty air, open sockets in his scarred skull like two cavities punched into a planet by asteroids. He knew that the pain was greater on one side of his face than on the other because one of said sockets had a broken edge, and for as much as everything else seemed cooked off, all the nerves appeared to work just fine.

His face rested on his hands, his elbows on his knees, and he sat against one wall of the cell, contemplating the depth and severity of his situation… as well as the puzzling existence of it all. Why was he still alive, so rendered as he was? Did the Elite's honor system go so far as to stay their weapons from killing unworthy foes? Rangor had never felt more defeated, more crushed, more angry, than he did now. Trapped in a cell on his own ship, trapped in an agony-streaked dark he could find no escape from, there was little he could do about any of it. The world was reduced to sound, and sensation. Vertigo had yet to sway it's grip on his balance, but in time that would change, if he lasted that long. If they bothered to feed them, and if he didn't end his own misery just to be rid of it all. The pain, the noise, the headache, the circumstances… there was no way out, and Rangor had never seen anything more clearly than that truth.


	4. A Dream Realized

**Segment Four: A Dream Realized**

**Covenant Ship Cluster **_**Illustrated Deliverance**_

**Covenant Cruiser **_**Glacial Hieroglyph **_

**November 4, 2552, Sol Relative Time **

Against the stark contrast afforded by the observation transom, her lithe figure reminded him of a painting he had seen long ago on the wall of the antechamber of the Academy. Silhouetted as black as the inky, featureless night, Rkwa 'Lavuree stood at the window, staring out into the empty vacuum beyond, but whether she was looking at the stars therein or not was still up for debate.

'Lygotee was unsure if he wanted to approach her or not, but he was curious – curious about so much, and without means to discover any of the answers save for the asking. She was the biggest mystery he'd ever encountered, but so far, she was the only one he was hesitant to address. A female that could fight as adeptly as any of the males she shared company with was slightly more dangerous, he supposed, as females were far more flighty, more prone to reaction rather than consideration, and while it wasn't the best as for their own health, it made for a lot more dead enemy a lot faster.

This was without mention of her… talent… whatever that truly entailed. When she spoke, he flinched, having not made a whisper of sound approaching and having been standing behind her in total silence for the last ten minutes. "Have you something to say, Commander?"

'Lygotee sighed – there was no help for it now, she obviously had known he was there for at least half the time he'd been there if not longer. He stepped forward, and took a place beside her facing the window. One of his hands hung free, the other he hung from his belt by a thumb. Both of hers were tucked behind her, the thumbs of one wrapped around the wrist of the other. "Nothing I could put to words, outright." He answered.

'Lavuree cast him a glance. "Nothing at all, sir?"

"I am bursting with questions, if that is what you want me to admit, but I do not as yet know how to pose them, so I cannot rightly ask any of them." He elaborated, turning his head to meet her gaze for a moment. "What would you have me say?"

Her expression hinted at amusement for the tiniest increment of time, then she turned her gaze back through the window. "I understand, sir."

'Lygotee shook his head, puzzled no less than before. "All I can think of is why. What drove you to the stars, what got you into the Academy, what made you stay in the fleet once you were there? Why, why, why? I have no answers."

"You hold more than you know." She answered, quietly. "You just fear to walk that thought."

"Walk what thought?" 'Lygotee asked, startled.

Her only response was to smile.

He sighed, frustrated. "Shall I wring it from you, the way I had to when you were holding back information on the _Radiant_?"

'Lavuree's smile grew slightly, as a small giggle escaped her. "Oh, wouldn't you like to try that."

"'Lavuree!" 'Lygotee protested.

She laughed aloud, then, as if in mockery of his futile attempts to understand. "Commander, you don't need to stake so much on this pursuit." She looked at him again. "I am in no danger of disappearing, nor is anything I have to say life-threatening or time-sensitive. There is no conflict here. You are safe… you can rest your weapons for a time."

'Lygotee gave her a speculative look. "You mean that literally or figuratively?"

She shook her head at him. "I am not a seer. I only feel what is now."

"My question stands." He insisted.

'Lavuree looked at him again. "You're serious? You think I know if there are any enemy still hiding on this ship? In this battle-cluster?"

He shrugged, allowing for spontaneity. "One never knows these things unless one asks… correct?"

She sighed, heavily. "No, one does not. What is irritating is you seem to think I am omnipotent and all I ever did was tell you what already was."

"But it was relevant… and otherwise missed."

'Lavuree worked her mandibles for a moment, looking back out the window. "I suppose I might say that I can't see us fleeing this sector with four ships…"

'Lygotee's attention centered.

"But I couldn't tell you why."

"I can't convince anyone of that's validity if all you tell me is what you only think you see, 'Lavuree."

She looked at him again. "If all you believe is what you can see, Commander, then why do you carry that plasma rifle? How can you trust it to fire true? And how…" She unfolded her hands and held one up to him as if holding something. "Can you believe in me?"

He looked from her face to her hand, puzzled at what she thought she was doing, exposing an empty hand to view. His interest increased twofold when he suddenly realized the air was condensing to the point of visibility and loss of transparency above her palm. This was someone he didn't want to anger.

"I cannot prove why I sense what I sense, or even that I sense it." She let it go, and put her hand down, and a sound like a gasp came from the condensed area as it relaxed the density and pressure. "I can only tell you that I do."

"I understand that much about you, 'Lavuree. I figured that out when you started to tell of things not yet come to pass, and warn of things in place and in danger of transformation… and even more so when I saw you holding those beams from the floor upon which the Elites of the _Radiant_ walked. I trust in this strange, alien gift you seem to possess. What I don't understand is the female behind it."

She gave a sheepish smile, and looked away. "I am infinitely more complex than a simple paragraph's worth of description, Commander… but I daresay you know me much better than you suppose you do. My actions, my thoughts, my words… these were never lies. The only things I hid from you were my disposition as a female, and my ability as a psych."

"Why?" 'Lygotee pressed. "Why, though? Who were you hiding from?"

"I had run from my home, Commander… lost of a place to stay and bereft of my House, I was as honored as the stones the streets were paved with. I was running from myself… my past, my beginning. I didn't want it to follow me."

"You didn't have to run to the Covenant." 'Lygotee pointed out.

"Maybe not… but I was enthused at the time with a wild and crazed idea, and I had to go and get in too deep trying to see where it would end so that by the time I was beginning to consider leaving, it was far too late."

"You stayed… I can't believe that you kept on because you were bound by your oaths, their duration has long since expired… you could leave, you could have left, some while back. You didn't, and not because you were seeking favors and honors for your House."

"No." She agreed, shaking her head. "Not for those things."

"Why, 'Lavuree? What makes a Houseless female chase combat across lightyears of distance with a crowd of honor-hungry males?"

She stifled a laugh. "The company."

--- --- ---

Till 'Auchimee stood half-propped on a railing over the side of the engine compartments, on the catwalk that spanned not only the breadth but the width of the chamber as well. There was a short passage over the main bulk of the central engine, crossing open space well over the heads of those on the ground floor. Beneath their hooves would be bare metal, layers upon layers of insulation, cross-beams and the ship's skeleton before the hull plating saw open vacuum. This was the very bottom of the ship, but the feeds for thrust and power went all over the place from here- this was the most heavily armored area on the vessel, so it was a good place to think in the peace and quiet.

The ship's heartbeat could be felt here, pulsing waves of energies and heat and plasma, only smoothing out into an even flow some way farther down the lines. Till rested on his elbows, looking down over the heads of the Huragok and the Elites milling between them, and the machinery that made the ship operate. This was the _Glacial Hieroglyph_'s heart, and even if all the rest of her were torn asunder, as long as her heart still beat, she would still move, and by the looks of the engine Till guessed she could dance with the best of them.

He held to his useless limb with his good arm, so it looked to all who chose to see that he had his arms crossed atop the railing, leaning equally on both elbows. In truth he was only leaning on one of them- the other would not have held him, as the shoulder blade and the ball socket attaching the arm to his collarbones had been severed. It was only attached to him by muscle, tendon and connective tissue.

Awrkon 'Sendavilee appeared in his peripheral, shortly, but when he looked up he saw the other warrior was hardly in much better shape than himself. He smiled anyway, glad simply to see the fellow on his hooves. "You are back early."

"The medics told me I could either leave on my own or they would throw me out." Awrkon answered. "I thought it prudent not to earn another bruise."

Till frowned.

Awrkon grinned at him. "I kid you, Commander. Don't be so dour all the time."

Till heaved a sigh, and shook his head. "You worry me, second. I do not often know to tell if you jest or are serious."

Awrkon took a place next to Till and leaned similarly on the rail. "That is why I am the second, and you are the Commander." He said, looking down at a passel of Huragok as the strange creatures clustered around an open maintenance hatch. Parts flowed between them all, coming out of the device they were disassembling. "I'm your sense of humor."

Till cast him an interested look. "You think I do not own one of my own?"

Awrkon returned the look. "Of course you do, sir… but you don't know how to use it."

"Hm." Till looked down again, in time to see the contents of the hatch reassembled and covered over as the Huragok dispersed. "Perhaps you are right… but then, Dial was much better at this than I. His command was a good one."

"He had a lot of experience, sir… you'll get the hang of it soon enough." Awrkon assured him. "I'm sure that under the circumstances, you would have made him proud."

Till scowled at his second. "Do not presume to have known him as well as that. M'akamee understood what needed to be done, and he was willing to sacrifice what had to be in order to accomplish the goals. I am sitting idle, half-crippled and without a hope of measuring up to his ability even if I had a thousand fresh, rested and fed Elites to work with! This crisis will be the end of me… and for my failure, the end of us all."

"Do not make me hurt you." Awrkon muttered, quietly.

Startled by the threat, Till looked at him with renewed interest. "What do you mean by that?"

He looked back, finally. "I mean what I say, Commander. You have this command- and as much as I am able to see, you have done a damn fine job of it so far. You got us out of the station before we would all have died there. You got us four fine ships with which to fight, and you, I might point out, made sure first thing that those four ships could not turn on one another to destroy us all before we had them completely taken. Your fault, your fault, your fault… yours and yours alone. I did not give the order to leave the _Radiant_, that was you. I did not issue a bulk of forces straight to the Command Chambers, that was you. Why do you doubt yourself so? You've done nothing but well ever since being handed this command."

"And you threaten to hurt me because…?"

Awrkon laughed. "Because you're a blind old fool and you have yet to open your eyes and see how much better off we all are now. Given the circumstances, a lesser warrior might have seen many more of our numbers fallen before even considering some new ingenious option… such as snatching vessels straight from the hands of the enemy that sought to use them against us."

Till nodded, speculative.

"You have done well, Commander. We could not ask for a better Leader."

"We could have had Dial…" Till mentioned, his gaze drawn down at the pulsing enginery below them. "We failed him, Awrkon."

"Ah, Till." Awrkon sighed, shaking his head as he too looked down once more. "You will never change, will you? Forever aware of the worst case scenarios, forever the pessimist."

"I like to be surprised, Awrkon, not disappointed."

"And you will be… we have word now of one of the other ships."

Till looked at him, but he didn't look back. "What of it?"

"It's yours, Commander."


	5. For Integrity

**Segment Five: For Integrity **

**Section Three: Vorkimidea **

**June 2, 2433: Sol Relative Time**

**Sangheili Colony World Amdrev**

Vorkimidea strode through the trees trying to put her thoughts in order. If not for fleeing a crime she had not committed, she would never have met or spoken to Odril, who seemed to her to be better capable of being a father than a warrior. He seemed terribly soft-spoken to be such an efficient killer as a warrior need be to gain respect and station in the ranks of the Covenant. Still, she had other matters to mind, such as her significant lack of a place to stay. Few if any would take in a homeless scallywag, which was as close as she was to anything honorable these days. She knew she had a long way to go to regain any semblance of her father's honor, her mother's integrity, or the Vor House's pride. Yet though she knew it was possible, she knew not the methods. Daylight was on the wane before she realized how far she had walked, and how far she must be from the city. Irritated, she wondered whether to try her luck at backtracking a trail she hadn't really seen the first time she walked it, and in the dark, or just piling up at the base of a tree and waiting until dawn to return when she could follow the shadows and get there without getting lost.

She didn't know this forest that well, though she had been in it often enough to know how deep into it she was- the nature of the growth changed the thicker the vegetation got, but somewhere close by there ought to be a glen. If she could find the glen, the odds of her getting lost when she set out from it again were smaller than simply trying to retrace her steps from where she was. The city had grown some since the last time she had been out in the trees, and she knew the opening in the woods was closer to a residential area than where she had entered them.

Slowly Vorkimidea surveyed her surroundings, before choosing a direction and moving that way. It didn't take her long, even past the three years' worth of new growth she was unfamiliar with in her way. Soon the glen opened up, and she stood in the open under the twilight of the last hours of the day. Holding her hands up to the sky, she searched it for a star, but the only thing she spotted looked like it was Odril's ship, coasting in an orbital pattern in the upper atmosphere.

When the sun was all the way down she would see more, but until then she would need to look at other things to find her amusements. Facing what she presumed to be the right direction, Vorkimidea strode off across the breadth of the glen, supposing she could always hole up in the temple for the night. If it was just one night, no one would notice. It was the permanent residents that got attention.

Vorkimidea paused when she heard the Common Warrail's cry. The odd little avian was a native to the area, but the blood-curdling scream it kept as its song was disturbing to most. They were no good for eating and less for aesthetic qualities, but this didn't keep the local Sangheili population from shooting them out of the sky once in awhile to be rid of them. Being an essential part of the ecosystem merely meant the bird didn't get wiped out. Vorkimidea spared a look back the way she had come, but in the rising moonlight she saw a familiar glint. The sight reminded her she had left the sword behind, and she started to return for it when it occurred to her the action was a foolish endeavor in the dark. Sufficing with a mental kick to herself, she went to investigate the odd metallic something that had reflected the moonlight.

As she drew closer she began to imagine that it was another sword, and she had finally gotten lucky, but when she squatted, she realized what it really was. Running her hand over the mostly rusted surface, she quickly uncovered a lichen-sheathed armored vest that had been the garb of choice for warriors of the age past; if this was a discard, someone had shirked their house and honor to run free as a nameless nomad. But this was soon seen as not the case when beneath the vest she found the rest of the armor, the shield generators and some other equipment still clinging to the belt they had been attached to so long ago.

Vorkimidea recoiled when she found the skull of the warrior still clad in the matching helm, held to the top of the neck – which was reduced to vertebrae- by the armor. The body had fallen here, at the base of this tree, and died there, slouching to the ground as it decomposed. Clawing free more of the lichen exposed the means of demise, but the scorched edges of the plasma burns were not all that intrigued her.

On the armored vest, where a normal warrior might have kept his yellow marker bar, were three purple bars. Here was an Elite who had come so far up the ladder he had surpassed the rank and profile she was familiar with- was he the Supreme Commander? That seemed unlikely- no word had reached the colony of such a death, especially of it happening right here in these woods. Still, if his armor was really black and not ruined to that color, it meant he was Spec Ops, but the purple bars were a mystery to her. Sifting through his things by moonlight, she came upon an empty place between two pieces of equipment- some of which she didn't recognize. Deciding it odd, she looked farther down, more to see if it was in or near a hand. Finding one, she determined it was empty and all her sifting through the dirt and leaves around it gleaned nothing. Finding the other, she lifted the loose knuckles from the palm where they had fallen in, and picked up the skinny recorder from amid the slender finger bones. Whoever this had been, he had had some long, small fingers, but his claws were gone, being more prone to decomposition than his skeleton. The gauntlets surrounding his forearm bones looked more empty than they ought to have, but suggested a great deal of muscle.

After investigating the recorder, she determined it had auto-stopped, meaning if he made a recording into it after he'd sat down, he never really finished, and let it record for however long after he'd stopped speaking. Once she figured out how it worked, she freaked and dropped it when it proved to still have battery power.

Once her wit was regained, however, she retrieved it and sat beside the fallen warrior's remains to listen. The model was old- probably old to the warrior who kept it. But she knew the model and knew she could easily be there all night, just to hear it to the end. Vorkimidea had patience.

"… _this is Special Operations code __**flight of honor**__ reporting. I don't think I may last too much longer so I will need to leave things out, to keep this brief and to the point. I was able to complete my mission, as you must by now know, but what you may not know is the extent of my success or failure, depending on department. All subsequent reports following this incident will doubtless have been edited to suppress either panic or public reaction and uprising. Here are the details, as per fact and in order…"_

_--------------------------------------_

**June 3, 2433: Sol Relative Time**

**Sangheili Colony World Amdrev **

Sunlight streaked through the leaves in the forest canopy, falling to the earth in streaks and spots. Day had dawned. For just a moment Vorkimidea wondered where she was, before it became evident. Looking to her left she saw her handiwork of the night before, and realized much of what she had revealed was rusted, not black, and though the memory of seeing it as such and with purple bars remained, the evidence was not as convincing. No color remained to the ruined armor, though for the moment it was still intact, and maintaining its shape. Near where the plasma had burned through, there were areas where the rust had done the same, but it was empty air behind it, the bones bleached white where exposed and a pale yellowed color where in shadow behind the armor.

Looking closer, she held up a hand to shadow the vest, looking for the colored bars, but there was nothing. Still, she understood one thing- she had not imagined anything from the night before, as the recorder that had lain in his hand for all those years had spent the night in hers, and the words spilled from it still echoed in her dreams. He had done something terrible, and paid the price, but somehow, even though he had never said why, and had failed to speak any names of who he was reporting to or who he was, she felt she understood it had been a necessary move.

And for forty years, he and all his things had lain there, decomposing, waiting for a suitable messenger. The report had not been made lightly. Indeed she had always assumed the former occupant of her old home had been killed by a rival in a petty argument, not by design by an assassin come for that very purpose. It made her wonder if the minister's mate had really committed suicide.

Someone out there was expecting this report, but given as the body was undisturbed, it had never been found and by this she assumed that other could only guess without verification about what had really happened. Vorkimidea packed the old warrior's things into her pockets, and threw the litter back onto the corpse. Maybe someone else would find it, maybe they wouldn't. But she knew better than to leave traces of herself, as she was not exactly the most honored member of the city's population. One thing she took to heart as condolence, though, as she left the glen; they could never accuse her of murdering him, as it was beyond obvious he had had the time to rot away after his death. She would have needed to have killed him when she was barely knee-high to him for such a thing to be her fault.

But his recording proved him to be much older than even that. His body had been there for forty years, and she was only seventeen. Vaguely she wondered who it was he had addressed his report to, and why he had left so much out. It was obvious- he had left things out. That much was clear even to her, though for all she gave it thought he didn't seem to have been inconsistent or outright lying.

Who was he? Where had he come from? What was the real reason he had come here to kill that other Sangheili? How the minister had fallen was one thing- why had never been explored. But to be honest, not even Vorkimidea had wondered that until now. Until she had stumbled upon the bones of an old, fallen warrior, the same one who had been there that fateful night, the one who cleared the house so she might stay in it after her own tragedy. Perhaps through this new revelation she could find her Uncle and move to his house, where she could stay until she was ready to be on her own, until she had found a mate of her own and had a house of her own.

Vorkimidea fingered the recorder in her pocket the whole way to the city, trying to think of something to do. If she took it upon herself to seek out the mystery addressed, and return that report, she would need to assign herself to the troops of the Holy Covenant, a thing she hadn't ever before imagined herself doing, and who knew how long her mission might take. Or, for that matter, if they would ever let her go once she was done with it. Somewhere inside the residential area of a wealthy district, she was struck by a thought; what if she could track down that visiting warrior she'd met over the drain ditch and give it to him, then get on with her original plan of finding passage to her Uncle? She turned the thought over in her mind for several hours, debating whether going to see that fellow again would be a good idea despite the report or not.

Eventually, she shook it off, and dismissed the idea. Something about the nature of that warrior in the woods made her sure beyond doubts that the fewer people knew about it and heard it the better- though why escaped her, she knew from long experience to mind her instincts. They had gotten her from her father's house alive, even under great stress. Vorkimidea sighed for the loss, missing her parents and younger sibling, the warm home and soft bed, the joys of feeling the soil she knew was hers- if until she moved out with a mate- beneath her bare hooves.

For now, there was none of those things, and she had to deal with the world on her own, in her own way, without them. She wasn't afraid, but she longed to return to the place in her past, and stay there, because all her troubles had begun when that terrifying fire had consumed everything- including her bloodline.

Sighing, Vorkimidea walked through the streets heading for the minister's house, having forgotten what had led to her sleeping in the forest to begin with. Coming near to the place, though, she remembered, sensing the activity and the feel of others nearby. Reminded she had nowhere to go, she paused in the middle of the streets, and hung her head. Nowhere to go… the pain of the brutal fact was almost enough to drive her to her knees. Vorkimidea understood her predicament, but she hated it no less. Raising her head, she wiped away the emotion, aware she had no time for it, and strode on past. Surely there was somewhere else she could hole up in, for the next year. It still astounded her that none of her family had come to investigate why her parents had suddenly gotten so quiet. The dead didn't speak on comn lines, didn't answer messages.

But Vorkimidea could hear them, plain as if they had lived that morning, their voices echoing in her head and driving her insane. It was easier to ignore them when she was busy with a task or talking with someone, but in moments like these, there was no refuge to which to run, and she was forced to listen to them as they bewailed to her their woes, their pain, their dismembered and disembodied shades reflecting in her memory. She had seen her mother be crushed under the fallen roof before escaping, had witnessed her little sibling die slowly and miserably, without anything she could do about any of it. It hurt, it all still hurt, even many years later. But she forged on, despite them, seeking the one thing she couldn't seem to find.

Vorkimidea hugged her elbows, aware her garments were soiled from the trip through the drain and the night in the woods, but anything she had to replace them with had been left in that house- the one she couldn't go back to. The one that had sheltered her for so long, only to be stripped from her like everything else. Would she never have what she wanted, what she needed, no matter what she tried to do to get it? Would all her endeavors go unrewarded, to the death of her? As she walked, she received many curious stares and a few looks of disdain, her pale grey skin shining in the sun like a jewel. Alone in the crowd, the rest of the people she passed all had the normal, accepted Sangheili skintone, dark and well-adapted to the hot sun. Vorkimidea was already feeling hers begin to burn, though, the heat of the day washing past her with the dust in the air like sandpaper, scathing and unforgiving.

Never in her life had she ever tanned, or darkened to the sun's kiss, like all others. She had been born without pigment, and had stayed that way her whole life. Her eyes, the part of her Odril had commented on, were white with a pale violet tint, the color of her blood. Vorkimidea knew she was different, but with a few guises, she was able to get by without a lot of comment or recognition. After a nasty encounter with one law official, however, she had filched some ink and had taken to rubbing that on her white skin, to darken it. The ink worked, but it fell off with the shedding of layers of skin, and washed off, all too easily. With almost two days worth of wear, and the heat of the sun, she had been reduced to a very light brown and would be white again possibly by tomorrow, with no access to her ink or the towel she had favored for the application.

She paused on the street where she had last caught up with the parade that had gone to the Academy, and stared sadly at the paved ground. The fading echoes of the probates still reflected from the area, a song gone to ground until next year. Vorkimidea wanted to weep. Stripped of everything- her family, their honor, her home, even the place she had begun to think of as a home, and all the things she had acquired over the years to make living there easier- she stood stark and alone against the world, which seemed hell-bent on bringing her down, consuming her like her bloodkin, reducing her to passing ashes on the hot midmorning wind.

Pressing her hand into her pocket, she curled her fingers around the slim recorder, and squeezed it with wont to crush it. The material proved hardier and sturdier than her grip, though, and all she did was strain the muscles in her wrist. Pulling it out, she looked at it, her mandibles pressed tightly shut. There was nothing for her here, nothing to keep her. Everything she had tried to compensate for, everything she had tried to build was gone, and now she stood empty and free, loose from all forms of ties and tethers. What had she to lose? Her life? Her bloodline had other carriers, even if the combination of the House of Vor with the House of Dey had only her. Should she care? What good would it do her, to attempt to seek such a mundane life as only that, when she could make true use of herself, accomplish something good, and rise above the misery that held her now? She had been freed, quite forcefully, and quite permanently, of all that might have held her back. She knew she was too young as yet to have prospects as a mate, but the Academy would house her, feed her, give her direction and purpose, even if they tried to beat her into a mold visited by so many others before her.

Vorkimidea grinned mirthlessly at the sky, hating her circumstances and her choices, but aware no wish she made would ever come true. She had been given a sword, and had lost it. She had had a house, and that was gone. She had even lost her over-robe, something she had had to exercise a great deal of skill to obtain. It had been her best one, thick and sturdy, good for many years of wear. It was gone, like her life here. What would anyone do if she were to disappear? No one would miss her, she knew.

She opened her fist, and sighed, calming her silent storm. There was a future for her, somewhere, but she had to find it. The one thing she understood then and there was that it was not on this planet- this colony, this city that had shunned her as useless, scorned her… Vorkimidea, without honor. Slowly she put the item in hand back into her pocket. In the meantime, she had a life to preserve, and a winter to weather. Preparations needed to be made.

**Covenant Ship Cluster **_**Illustrated Deliverance**_

**Covenant Cruiser **_**Glacial Hieroglyph **_

**November 5, 2552, Sol Relative Time **

The metal walls were passivated, something often done, but these walls were also ribbed, and there were support pillars every thirty meters across the open edge. This was a fighter bay. The ships carried dropvessels, but those were on a lower deck, and these held a better appeal.

For all the security and clout, though, the Brutes had not been able to keep their ships from falling into the hands of the Elites. Now these ships were all under Elite control, and instead of an asset were a danger to the Brute-dominated Covenant.

"It looks a little scuffed up. Do you suppose they had trouble docking?"

'Lavuree turned, recognizing the voice as belonging to a Grunt. She wasn't being spoken to, though, as more of the smaller creatures milled about on the ground floor. It was of interest, she noted, that all the ones she recognized were still around, even though the Grunts had taken heavier losses than the Elites had, in taking this ship from the Brutes. A Jackal carcass was discovered, and dragged away. 'Lavuree crossed her arms, and leaned on a pillar, watching them go about, some of them between points, some performing rudimentary tasks, others just hustling about, talking.

It wasn't unusual, the Unggoy society based on forms of communication that she was familiar with but unused to. They had the oddest, silliest looking body-language, wiggling and waving at one another in wordless gesture. Waving hello from across the bay was especially amusing to watch, but 'Lavuree knew better than to laugh at them. This was their culture, and they were as glued to it as her own kind were to their honor-code.

She sighed, disappointed she had been unable to escape him, when she heard the door to a passage open behind her, and the footsteps of an Elite she knew all too well come striding towards her. "Hello, 'Lygotee. I see you've found me again."

"You were hiding?" He answered, pausing to look down at the Grunts. "I'm told we have acquired possession of the other ships."

"Hmm." She looked at him, then. "And when was this?"

"I learned as much this morning." He looked back. "Your hunch was wrong, this time. All four are ours now, and we have begun the trip away from the system already."

"You dare." She frowned at him. "I was not _wrong_. We aren't home free yet, Commander, don't let your guard down just yet."

He frowned right back. "Are you going to destroy it, then?"

'Lavuree shook her head. "Of course not."

"Which one?" he asked, suddenly.

She paused. "I… don't know their names."

"You can't point it out?"

'Lavuree sighed. "I could… I think. Why? Do you want to know so you can go there, or if it is this one, so you can leave?"

'Lygotee clicked his mandibles in irritation. "I would like to witness this inescapable doom you have issued upon our own."

"I didn't issue anything, Commander. I merely warned you of it. The Brutes do not give up easily and if there is even one left aboard one of these ships that is still free and capable, he'll do his damndest just to give us hell."

'Lygotee sighed, and shook his head. "Alright, show me."

--- --- ---

The thunder of silence failed for a moment, replaced briefly with the sound of an opening door, and the following steps of the one that had entered. A pair of persons at the door hesitated there for a second to exchange words before following the first, but they all stopped at the door of a cell containing someone else.

Rangor raised his head, listening to the Brute howl and claw past the bars of his cell, screaming insults and expletives, sometimes pausing to roar at them. The newcomer was one of the accursed Elites that had stolen his battlecluster, but it only took a single word from the fellow to turn the Brute's callings into words more often associated with converse.

"I will tear your head from your shoulders and wear your teeth as a trophy, filthy Sangheili!"

The response sounded too calm for good health, considering who was on which side of that cell door. "I very much doubt that. You are alive at my behest, and at my behest will you die. I am here to gain information and I will get it before I am done here. You will answer the questions I put to you the best way you know how… if not, then I will gladly put you out of my misery and see about the rest of your foul kin."

"I will tell you nothing! You will all die horrible deaths when the Great Journey begins!"

The Elite gave some pause. "Still, until that day, I will do as I will and as I must."

Rangor got the feeling he had just motioned at his minions, after saying that, because the next roar of fury from the Brute's mouth came with a cut-off ending, at the sounds of a pair of spitting Carbines. Doubtless they had just shot him through the door of his cage.

Honorless curs.

The interrogator moved down the corridor between cells, selected another, and the sound of the door opening on that one was met with a bawling roar as the suddenly freed Brute lunged out in attack. Rangor flinched at the sound of an energy sword coming to life, but this time the Brute was not killed- but incapacitated instead. The unfortunate fellow was still bawling, this time in agony, and continued to do so throughout the rest of the event.

"Bring him." The one Elite said, before all four of them receded back the way they had come. Rangor sighed. His headache had subsided, if but a small amount, and though he could think past it now, he was wishing they had just killed him in battle rather than letting him succumb to this slow rot. He had no interest in dying at the hands of some torturer.

Sadly, it only took a spare hour for that trio to return, tossing the useless Brute back into his cell, likely to die there, unattended. Rangor listened helplessly as one by one all the brutes in his cell block were dragged away, and back again, either dead or useless, reduced to quivering, mindless husks. Maybe some of them would recover, but others never would. Finally, the door to his own cell opened, but unlike all the rest, Rangor didn't move. He could hear them, plain as day, but he couldn't justify lunging at them when he would likely miss without his target needing to duck, and he was in no way going to become their laughing stock.

How his eyesockets burned! Curious at his static behavior, the Elite in charge of the messy business strode through the doorway into the cell to meet Rangor at the back. Tilting his head slightly, he growled in warning, but made no other move. The Elite paused, as though considering.

"You're a strange beast." He mentioned, as if in an attempt to start a conversation.

Rangor wasn't interested. But by the words, he had betrayed where his head was, and when he stood up all at once in a sudden rush of motion, he was able to clamp a hand around the Elite's skinny neck. The feel was satisfying, knowing he had gotten the grip even without his eyes. He snarled at what he presumed would be where the Elite's face was, curling his lip so his fangs showed. "Get out."

Calmly, the Elite plucked Rangor's hand from his neck, and tossed it aside. "You think you are in control here, Brute?"

"I am Rangor! Ship Master of the _Glacial Hieroglyph_! I do not respond to anything less." Rangor growled. For some reason, this Elite was just too casual with this situation, and it made Rangor wonder how many of his friends were _really_ out there… it couldn't possibly just be two.

"Ship Master, then?" The Elite took a step back. "You must know a great deal."

Rangor clubbed the Elite hard, and stomped after where he'd hit and fallen. Plucking the skinny creature from the floor, he thrust him out into the hall. "I said get out! You will mind my orders, idiot creature, lest I rip your limbs from their sockets!" Turning, he stalked back to the back of his cell, and sat down again.

The Elite picked himself up, rubbing a bruise, doubtless wondering what in tarnation had gotten into Rangor. For now, though, he seemed content to let it rest at that… he might be back, he might not. Rangor didn't care. He'd just as soon prefer not to have to deal with them ever again.

This was proving an interesting game.


	6. For Honor

**Segment Six: For Honor **

**Section Four: Rkwa 'Lavuree **

**May 22, 2434: Sol Relative Time**

**Sangheili Colony World Amdrev**

Vorkimidea pulled the tarp down, and draped it over the ground to fold it up into a more manageable size. What it had been covering now lay exposed, and it probably wasn't for the best that it was, but it didn't belong to her and she knew if the owner could afford it then they could get a new tarp, without being bothered by this one's loss. On the other hand, she mused, there was the possibility she wasn't going to need it for that long, and she figured if she remembered to, felt like it and knew where to take it, she just might take it back again before she left.

The possibility of that was rather slim, though, and she didn't give the idea much thought. Taking the folded tarp in hand, Vorkimidea turned to walk away. She rather hated having to steal things, but she'd been reduced to the practice for the last nine years, and it didn't bother her that much anymore. Who were they to deny her the basic needs? It wasn't as if she were filching precious items, or delicacies. Rather than taking these, she took only what she needed- the food, the things she could turn into a shelter, like the tarp, and sometimes when she found something that fit that she liked, attire made the list.

Vorkimidea paused when she heard the rumble of thunder, and looked up. She felt the whole city held it's collective breath as everyone paused with her, and stared at the sky. Ships were descending through the atmosphere, something she had only ever heard about. It wasn't an attack, though- they were here for other reasons. Likely, to empty the Academy, even though it was a whole month too early. She stood there and stared at them, huge sleek monoliths rendered in shades of violet ranging from sharp white where the sun was reflected to a deep black where light didn't touch the hulls. Awed at the sight, she smiled, wondering if she might ever see such a thing again. Regardless of the connotations, it was a beautiful sight, and she knew the whole city was watching with her. Even as she blinked, a transparent light winked on, flashing to life at the bellies of nearly every ship that reached a certain depth in the atmosphere. Across the horizon, she could just pick out more vessels descending over other cities elsewhere on the same continent.

Concern and puzzlement crossed her features, then, as a new mood suddenly settled over the city around her. Something wasn't right. Quickly she returned to her hideout, stashed the tarp for later arrangement, and left again to join whatever querulous crowd might have gathered, to learn what exactly was going on. Finding one of the beams, she discovered a lift platform at the base of it, and only then recognized the light's purpose. She had seen them before, but none this big. The platform could hold up to three dozen people at once, though that number would inevitably require there be a great deal of good relations between all concerned for the lack of elbow room.

Gathered around this were warriors of the Covenant, and around them were the people of the city, and though there was a common distress about them, it wasn't because anything bad was becoming of them. No one had been hurt- all the warriors were Sangheili, the Elites she had heard so much about. Each one wore armor and carried weaponry, looking trim and proper, and carrying themselves like they knew what it meant to stare death in the eye. Sifting through the crowd, Vorkimidea got as close to the lift platform as she was allowed, wanting to see it up close.

From that vantage point, she realized why the ships had descended through the atmosphere the way they had. Crates and boxes as big as three Sangheili adult males each and bigger were drifting down that lift beam, and the warriors were carrying them away, off down a street that had been blocked off for just that purpose. What was in the boxes was obvious- weapons' components. Some crates held pressurized plasma, others raw materials for weaponry construction. It made no sense to Vorkimidea, though, why such things would be aboard warships, or being off loaded at Amdrev, either. Weren't there freight-vessels for that?

A sense of urgency caught her attention, though, and she wondered if something had happened to the place where these things had once been- and if they had been lifted in a last minute effort to preserve them for later use. Fear curdled in her mind, and she recoiled from the scene in terror. There was only one thing that could have made these circumstances- a colony had been lost somehow in the war, whatever war it was now, and that meant _millions_ of people had been wiped from existence within the span of a single battle. And that thought horrified her, her imagination conjuring up the images that doubtless matched the event. Vorkimidea fled the scene, wanting to be anywhere but there- desperately she tried to shut out the pictures, telling herself they couldn't be real- she hadn't seen any of it. But it all seemed so real- even though she had never seen an Unggoy before.

Vorkimidea found a dark, dead-end alley and curled up at the dark end to cry, still shaken by the event. How could anyone hate someone else so much that that much damage happened? How could there be so much death so fast, on a single planet in a single day? She didn't know, and didn't want to, either. For a moment she began to reconsider her previous decision to use that same Covenant to escape her destitution. There was no way she was going to pay that kind of price just to be fed, clothed and sheltered. There was nothing saying she owed that dead warrior she had found a year ago anything at all, nothing saying she needed to turn in his report.

It took her several hours to gather her wits again, but even as she emerged from the alley she could see those ships still there, what was once beautiful to behold now serving as an ominous shadow on her mind. They were warriors- killers- they were the swordarm of the Covenant, the weapon the Prophet Hierarchs wielded when threats or challenges raised their heads. She knew she truthfully wanted no part of that, but in the end it came to the same thing she had always had to deal with; eat, or be eaten. And even as the season came to a close she had been feeling that her luck was running thin- she had been in this city for long enough people were beginning to recognize her, and soon they would take away her liberty, if not her life, for all the trouble she had caused them. Thieves were not exactly high on the tolerance list.

Soberly, she straightened her shoulders, and began to follow the street, needing to ask someone who might know about her self-appointed task. If she meant to get the report off this planet, she needed to get started in that direction. With all the troops here, there would doubtless be some not assigned to the work detail who would go and mingle with the city folk, talk and get some news. If she could find one, she knew there was a better chance of her learning the things she wanted to know.

After traversing much of the city, Vorkimidea finally came across a small cluster of them, each clad in armor, three in blue, one in red, and one in gold. She hovered a distance from them for a time, just listening to them talk, and debating actually trying to talk to one. Now that she was so near, she felt intimidated, even though she had yet to be actually noticed- not that she was making a lot of attractive motions or noises- the cluster were standing in a circle, facing inward, discussing something that made little to no sense to her. Something about the position of the fleet, she guessed.

Taking her courage in her hands, Vorkimidea started to step forward and make her query, and hope to be answered instead of shunned, when one of them- the gold one- suddenly said something without using his mouth to do so. Startled, she paused her approach before it ever really began, and listened as he apparently had a whole conversation with himself- until she realized he had an active communications device. Within the span of a few short exchanges, the whole party abruptly dispersed, all heading at a reasonable clip for the lift down the streets. Watching them go, Vorkimidea breathed a sigh, partly disappointed and partly relieved. Whatever might have been said was now erased, and she would need to find her way on her own- wherever that took her.

After the last one had gone from sight, she turned from the place and walked away, wondering what the Academy would be like. If what Odril had said was correct, then perhaps it would be the worst she would have to bear- she could track down this mystery superior and turn in the report, then be on her way back home- find her Uncle and settle in with him, shedding the mantle of warrior in favor of finding a mate and building herself a House. Maybe if she did it just right she wouldn't see any fighting at all. If she was lucky, it wouldn't take that long, either…

If she was lucky.

--- --- ---

Though young, Vorkimidea understood hardship, understood suffering, and the pain of going hungry. But one thing she hadn't learned was sacrifice- something reputed to be taught as an essential to warriors. The fact of the matter was, she had already been stripped of everything and anything that might have been worthy of the effort. There had been only pain of loss, but no sacrifice. She mused and pondered the issue for a time, and by the time she arrived at her small hideout she realized she had forgotten somethingrather important; during the task of forging a warrior out of her, the teachers at the Academy were likely as any to beat her into a hardened, toned build and most entrees worked hard for several years to gain an advantage over this- she had done little beyond her usual, which while it included quite a bit of aerobics and running for her life, it didn't strike her as typical warrior activities. They did tougher, harder things- didn't they? Vorkimidea shook her head. What a fine mess she was in now- nothing to back her up and no name worth mentioning, no honor and only the clothes on her back and the mission she had appointed to herself. Depositing her over-robe in the hideout, she stood outside the entrance and stretched her arms out wide.

Maybe, just maybe, she might could try a little training course of her own design, and if it worked, perhaps they wouldn't be so hard on her if she actually made it in.

"I am a failure, Vorkimidea the lost cause." She muttered, staring at the windswept clouds clinging to the hulls of the starcraft in the atmosphere. "But I am also determined to try anyway…" She paused, and looked down, stroking her mandibles in thought. "…aren't I?"

She had made it on her own for this long, and that had to count for something. "Well," she sighed, crossing her arms. "I certainly have nothing better to do." After a brief survey of the surroundings, she turned from it all and shook out the tarp. Unless she wanted to be covered in dew the next morning, she needed to get it spread over her prepared frame. It was a crude shelter, but as long as it didn't outright rain on her, it would suffice- not only be a shelter from the wind and sun, but the dewfall at night. Once she had it spread and secured, she went and sat inside, staring out through the opening she had decided would be the entrance, and spent some time in reflection.

Somewhere out there, amid the stars, was a future waiting for her. Once she had it, she was convinced she could return to Amdrev and begin the life she had been promised as a little girl. Though she had often scorned her figure in the past, for not being what was considered attractive, now she was glad for it, as she knew it would allow more things to be possible to her- such as taking her father's name as her own and passing off for a male as the need arose. Initially she didn't expect to encounter much in the way of trouble, but she knew that simply for being a female, what was hard for the males who would be in her class would reach for impossibility to her, because evolution had designed them for combat- protection of the females and young, and the subdual and capture of food. Females' fighting ability ran with a very simple but restrictive code- protection of the young, and preservation of self.

Very often, this was nowhere near what the males could pull off, and though some females had made the trip to warrior-hood, Vorkimidea had to wonder about her own prospects, unprepared and uninformed of any and all she might encounter. All she had to go on were the words of a warrior she had spoken with in passing, and they could hardly be called enlightening… But this year would be different. This year, things would improve. With the emptying of the Academy, there was room for her, and she need only take it. Step forward, stay with that crowd, walk the walk, and enter those gates.

Vorkimidea sighed. Here went nothing.

**Covenant Ship Cluster **_**Illustrated Deliverance**_

**Covenant Cruiser **_**Inspirit Symbol **_

**November 7, 2552, Sol Relative Time **

At the end of the ride, there greeted them silence. Till hadn't allowed them to go without a full compliment of warriors, though, and they all filed out into the docking chamber wondering if there had been a mutually assured destruction here so there were now none of either side of the conflict left. 'Lygotee turned to see when a motion on the second deck caught his eye, but he lowered his weapon when he saw it was just an Unggoy. The little creature was standing there staring down at them as if it would be the last thing he ever saw, and he wanted to burn the image into his little mind. 'Lygotee knew something was wrong here, but he just couldn't put his finger on what. If there were Brutes around, he couldn't smell them, but then again the whole place reeked of Brute and blood.

Turning to see her, he cast a look at 'Lavuree, but she was looking back at that Grunt, as if she knew the creature from before… it seemed unlikely, though, as she had never been on this ship before, and the odds of that particular Unggoy being one of their own compliment were small. She listened as Wassal called up to the fellow, though, chirping in his native tongue so no one but the Grunts understood a single word.

'Lavuree understood. She smiled sadly when the Unggoy called back, a short, simple reply, tinted with the fear she'd become all to familiar with. He'd been asked what his name was, but all he'd had to say in response to that had been hello. Behind him, a form three times his size welled up, but he didn't even turn to see it. 'Lavuree watched in horror as the bloodied Brute spotted them, and then kicked the Grunt from his perch hard enough so he smacked off their transport before slamming into the floor at their hooves- he'd either been wounded beforehand or had landed badly, though, as the poor creature didn't survive the impact.

The Brute roared, and beat his chest, as if in some kind of triumph, but he didn't get to call down his insult to the Sangheili below, as he suddenly realized the forward one was glaring at him so hotly he had to wonder if the warrior didn't have something personal against him. Half a second later, all the muscles around his neck bunched, and cramped inward, leaving him clutching at his throat and the nonexistent grip on it, as he strangled to death.

"'Lavuree!" 'Lygotee cried, suddenly aware the Brute gurgling in a heap on that landing above them was not choking on a bite of something, but by the intent of his fellow. She was trembling, pressing so much energy into that grip around the Brute's throat that his head had begun to sever, pinching off. He grabbed her, attempting to distract her, as he well knew what kind of reaction she generally had to a great deal of exertion, and the last thing he needed was for her to collapse now, here.

She dropped her gaze from the twitching Brute, and wavered, holding to his grasp of her before steadying again. She shook her head. "Sorry, Commander…"

"Let's be moving on, now, shall we?" he asked her, pushing her in the direction of the door before letting go of her. He wanted her where he could see her, because if she did that again where he couldn't, she wasn't liable to know when to stop. Her stride proved strong, and her path straight, though, even as she seemed to simmer over the idea.

The Unggoy they had brought trailed after her like loyal followers, seeming to see her as their appointed leader for some reason, even though even she answered to him… and him to at least six other Elites before Till entered the line of command. It wasn't so bad, he mused- if they were happy to do what she told them to, then more power to her. He took up their rear, as the five other Elites trailed behind him. It was an odd arrangement, but he'd put her up there, and there she would stay until circumstances changed. That was the way she'd always done this.

The corridors opened up as empty, though on occasion there were smears of blood on the walls, of all colors. Bright orange marked the spot where a Lekgolo had fallen, and as she walked, 'Lavuree ran her fingertips through the colors, as if seeking to know those that it all had once belonged to. Her expression, when he could see it, seemed melancholy to 'Lygotee, as she pondered the remains of what had obviously been a bloody battlefield.

She led them down through the maze, until they were near the Command Deck, at which point they came in view of the guard for that particular chamber. 'Lygotee stepped past the female, noting the warriors here were all staring at her. Her albinism made her a stark contrast against the deep purple corridor plating, not to mention her own armor. Even had she been a Grunt, he supposed, they would have stared, because she was such a novelty.

"How many of you remain, and what is your compliment of Brutes this day?" 'Lygotee asked.

It seemed to take a great deal of effort for the warrior to make himself look at 'Lygotee. "Uh… most of us… we… there are small pockets of isolated enemy here and there, but we have strike teams assigned to root them out and kill them…" he cast a puzzled look at 'Lavuree again, before continuing. "There are four hundred of us left… including the Unggoy."

'Lygotee grunted. "We saw a Brute when we docked- why did no one come to see us in?"

"There aren't enough of us." He gave 'Lygotee a strange look, as if his answer ought to have been obvious. Then he waved his hand at 'Lavuree. "Who is that?"

'Lygotee turned, to see who was being indicated, and caught 'Lavuree smiling, amused. "That is my most trusted and capable warrior- level your head, or she might see fit to remove it." 'Lygotee told him. "She doesn't appreciate being stared at."

The Elite frowned, but he looked at 'Lygotee again. "She, sir?"

"She." He confirmed. "I will speak with the appointed Ship Master."

"He's inside…" The warrior waved at the door he'd been posted at, and shook his head, as if attempting to clear it. A female! In the end, though, he couldn't help himself, and his gaze followed 'Lavuree as she walked past, following her Commander with the rest of their group. When the door was closed again, he shared a look of incredulousness with his own fellows, as each one tried to wrap their minds around that one.

Inside the Command Deck, 'Lygotee spared a moment to look around, and note the unattended damages still lingering across the room even as the Elites within stirred through it. He turned, partway, to look back at the psy, but she was looking up. Puzzled at that posture, he too spared a glance at the ceiling. Nothing unusual.

Looking down, his gaze was met this time, by 'Lavuree. "What were you looking at?" He asked, curious.

"Nothing with my eyes, sir." She answered, cryptically. "But you don't want to remain here for long."

"You have yet to prove why…" He began, but he stopped when an automated alarm blared behind him, turning his attention.

"Enemy inbound! They're charging main plasma cannons." Someone across the room said.

"Raise shielding!" The appointed Ship Master ordered. "What in creation do they think they are doing? There's no way they could know we have control of their ships!"

"First volley is away." Someone else said. "Closing at three hundred thousand kilometers."

'Lygotee looked at 'Lavuree accusingly, but she gave him only a worried look. "Hold onto something, Commander." Her voice sounded strangely muted, even as confirmation of reaction to the newcomers was relayed over the comn lines from the other three ships.

"I will never understand you, will I?" He asked, even as the sound of tortured energy – akin to that of a large gong made of leather stretched over metal – rippled through the ship. Three rounds hammered down on the prow, and the ship nodded downward from the formation, even as one of the others nodded with it, hit also.

The other two were most of the way turned, rolling and turning to face the enemy. Huge energy bolts tore from their fore guns, tearing through the space between the enemies and striking in return. These too splashed almost harmlessly across shielding, but of the two cruisers, taking out one's shields completely and leaving her hull exposed bare to the next volley.

"Charge!" The Ship Master demanded.

"Forty… fifty… they've fired again."

"Get me secondaries- I need everything this ship has."

'Lavuree looked at 'Lygotee, and tipped her head at his odd expression. "What?"

"Why aren't you doing something?" He asked.

"What??" She asked, shocked. "What could I possibly do?"

"Stop those rounds from striking our ships?" He offered, as if presuming she had that kind of power.

"Commander!" She protested. "I am nowhere near that able!"

"Why?" 'Lygotee asked. "What makes the difference?"

She sighed. "Belief."

"And you assume that because I think you could, you think you can't?"

'Lavuree scowled at him. "I've not handled anything that big – or that far away – since my second mission, sir. I hope you know what you are asking for."

"I do." He answered. "I'm just a little speculative on whether or not you can deliver."

'Lavuree seized him by his armored vest, and slammed him against the wall. "I am not a god!! I can't move mountains! I don't stop gods-forsaken plasma cannon rounds!"

Everyone was suddenly staring at them, but 'Lygotee didn't move. He knew that look – why she was so angry at him over this was a mystery to him, but he had no intention of being at the brunt of that temper… not with knowing what it could do. Glaring at him, she slowly pulled her claws from his vest, and took a single step back.

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't know what you're asking for, Commander." She told him, quietly. "You don't know anything at all about it."

Plasma rounds streaked hot and furious through the _Illustrated Deliverance_ battle cluster's formation, searing off shielding remnants and boiling up armor layers on the exposed hulls as it passed, but nothing was breached, nothing burst, and not one made a direct hit. Spinning about, the attackers forsook their aim for spinning out of the way as well, though one round slammed hard through the prow of the second ship anyway, tearing out armor, hull plating and every deck between the upper and lower hulls, spraying burning atmosphere out both ends with sparkling fragments of metal, superheated in the destruction.

The pair turned again, this time reacquiring their aim, but by the time either had obtained optimal firing positions, the quartet had fired again. As one, the pair launched their final salvo, the plasma rounds slicing past one another and searing the space between with anomalous ripples. The breached ship seemed to spawn spores into the space around it, as little carrier vessels for ship-to-ship or ship-to-ground travel fanned out, but before the other one's compliment could get far enough away from the mothership, the first round punched through it's nose, plowing through the neck and down into the main bulk of the vessel. The second round slammed through this freshly bored hole, and the craft bulged out, engulfed in plasmatic flame and shedding sparkling metal shrapnel. The first round hit the damaged ship square on, but the second aimed at it sliced between the vessels as the first threw the second hard to port by slamming fully half its own mass at it's starboard hull. Caught between death and destruction, the second ship buckled in half, and the fore spun away shedding parts and pieces greater in size than the craft that had just left it, as the rear began to dissolve and implode upon itself.

Even as the small vessels sped after the salvo ahead of them, the first one slammed hard into the _Inspirit Symbol_'s midsection, obliterating the last of her shielding and blistering her hull. The second hit more to aft, carving an enormous hole that began to spurt fire and molten metal with the venting atmosphere. A few dozen incinerated bodies slipped out into vacuum, drawn out as trails of ash.

Despite the smoldering conditions and superheated metal around and in the injury, the enemy vessel's compliment of dropships and carriers began to plunge into the hole, as if seeking to either make an entrance or make the hole bigger.

On the Command Deck, hardly anyone was still upright, as the gravity generators had taken a brutal shaking, disrupting the flow of energy to them, thus temporarily destabilizing the entire ship and causing something similar to a mild earthquake. Clawing to his hooves again, the Ship Master pressed his weight against the column. "Report!"

"We're leaking air, sir – decks fifteen and thirteen, twenty two through forty one are all venting atmosphere, but there are…" The warrior's expression pinched. "How…? Sir, there are small carrier vessels piling into the breach!"

"There's what??" He demanded, astounded. "Why?"

"I don't know, sir… but the pressure is building again, and at the temperatures the hull is standing at around that breach, and if they pile in deep enough, they'll have effectively sealed the hole over for us when their hulls weld down to ours. All we'd need to worry about are the contents of said ships, sir."

'Lygotee looked over at 'Lavuree, all of their troop sitting in unceremonious poses on the floor where they had been standing before. "Is everyone intact?" He asked.

"I believe so, sir." Another of the Elites replied. "But if that happens again, I think I might vomit."

"Disgusting." 'Lavuree muttered, beginning to pick herself up off the floor.

"Sir – the _Ungracious Accolade_ has just informed us the enemy vessels are a confirmed kill – both of them." The pilot said. "The current problem should be our only one, now, sir."

"What are your orders?" The Elite standing next to the Ship Master asked.

"Once that breach seals, the enemy that don't get cooked on contact with it will come out. Get some warriors down there to meet them, and make sure nothing gets out." He growled, straightening. "I don't want to see anything alive when I come down once I am finished here."

"Yes, sir." He turned, and left, pausing only to cast a look at 'Lygotee. "Are you coming along, Commander?"

He spared a look at his companions, then gestured at the door after the departed. "Let's move." Leading now, he took them out of the Command and down to the breach, stopping at an equipment locker for atmospheric equipment. The gathered forces had to stand back to wait, though, for several hours before it was cooled enough to get anywhere near. But as soon as it was, they closed the final gap, and began to survey the welded blob that had at one point been a posse of seraphs, phantoms and dropships. Steam, fumes and smoke swirled in the air, darkening the already unlit place, and though it seemed a natural cavern of some kind, drilled out of metals, it was more akin to a brand new chamber too big to warrant much use except perhaps for a gathering place for the entire remaining crew compliment of the _Radiant_.

'Lygotee watched as warriors moved through the gloom, their lights dancing across the billowing atmospheric contaminants, the lumpy, misshapen hulls of the multitude of ships reflecting where the metal had run like water before settling and cooling again. Something about the act of all this being here struck him as odd, but he couldn't figure out how else the enemy might have arrived aboard. He looked at 'Lavuree, as she extended a hand as if to touch a still fuming metal surface, but her hand never made actual contact, her fingers spread and palm stretched out flat to the metal, like she was testing its temperature.

She withdrew her hand, and curled it into a fist. "Gods…" The word was less than a whisper, but he heard it, as well as the sudden fear in her voice.

Stepping closer, he touched her shoulder to get her attention. "What is it?"

She withdrew farther from the smoldering ships, even as a rough slamming noise could be heard somewhere else along the line of ruined vessels. "We need to get out of here, Commander- we need to get everyone out of here." She turned to look at him. "They aren't Brutes at all."

"That explains their apparent disregard for their own safety, but what are you really saying?" He asked, looking over to see the metal bulge out with the next interior impact. Warriors had clustered there, all pointing their weapons at the blister.

She grabbed him, then. "Flood, Commander! They're Flood!"

He stared hard at her, but hadn't the time to answer as the bulge broke, and the first thing that poured out was some kind of strange green-grey liquid, followed by a disfigured form, dropping into a heap on the floor. A second form, shaped slightly differently, followed it down, but then a small white egg-shaped creature slightly bigger than a Sangheili head dropped out, and after wiggling about for a moment, lifted a set of sensory antennae, and waved them blindly at the spectators. An Unggoy squeaked in alarm when it came at the little alien, and shot at it with his plasma pistol, causing it to bust out into what appeared to be flakes of dead tissue. The stink pouring out was visible, and no one needed to smell it at all to know it would have overpowered them all had any of them not been wearing air masks.

'Lygotee stared. First the pool of liquid began to collect at the center of the wrecked floor, and drip through the cracks there, then the breach suddenly burst forth with Flood combat forms, each one plowing hard into the Elites and Grunts around their exit. Weapons' fire followed this action, although some didn't get to shoot before they had to wrestle free of a dangerous embrace, needing to fight with little more than their arms and legs just to get away far enough to have room to shoot.

At first the flow was contained, but there were too many of them, and even as they were mowed down, a carrier form burst, blowing out the shields of three Elites and killing a Grunt, and while half of the infection forms clamored after fresh prey, the rest dug into the chest cavities of the fallen combat forms that had already been killed once. Just when 'Lygotee's plasma rifle overheated and he had to step back and wait for it to cool again, he noticed another place being beaten on from the inside, and called out to the warriors that weren't actively engaged with the enemy. They arrived in time, though, to stop the Flood from getting completely loose, although they would not find many people outside this room, since they had all congregated here to ensure they were not overpowered by any surviving Brutes… except it hadn't been the Brutes at all, or even the Covenant, in any of its ways, shapes or forms.

Calcite claws as long as his arms raked across his shields, the force of the blow staggering him back and depleting the engine's output by a little over half. 'Lygotee smacked it over the shoulders, knocking it to its knees, and then plastered it's fore with hot plasma. The infection form contained in the chest burst, and the body toppled, but he couldn't trust it to stay that way.

Hearing an Elite scream in pure agony, he turned about to see one clawing at an infection form that was digging through his armor. He appeared to all faults to be losing, to the fragile thing, but it blew apart just as fast as it's brethren when he shot at it. Sputtering, the warrior drug his carbine from the floor where he'd dropped it, his shielding engine spitting sparks as it recalibrated energy focus to recharge. Weakened by the attack, he tried to back away from the main bulk of the fighting, his blood turning a weird blackish-green even as it leaked from his body.

'Lygotee's face contorted, only vaguely aware what that meant. He primed a grenade, "Holy light!!" And threw it into that abominable hole, blasting it just a little more open for the detonation. The Flood paused, but only briefly, in their outflow, before resuming their exit from the stack of welded dropships and carrier vessels onto the decks of the _Inspirit Symbol. _

Turned around by another melee attack straight to the face, 'Lygotee got a brief glance of 'Lavuree, her pale white skin like a flare in the darkness. Clawing from his place on his knees, he realized she wasn't just reflecting the light of their lamps, but was actually somehow alight in her own right, burning like some miniature star… and her energy sword seemed to react to her will more than her physical motions, searing and incinerating the Flood she came into contact with.

Her motions more resembled a kind of dance, turning and extending, folding back and taking a step. Her radiance marked her motions, but it was when she was hit from behind by a combat form that the true nature of that radiance came to light; the whole thing lit aflame, was consumed, and went out, littering ash through the smoke, metal fumes and steam. 'Lygotee felt transfixed by the sight, but at the same time bolstered by it – lifting from the floor, he came around rifle first, and smashed the calcite restructuring where bones would have been in the mangled creature were it still living, and it crashed to the floor, flailing uselessly.

They would not die this day – there would be a new dawn to greet them on the morrow, with a sun as radiant and beautiful as the one out to his left. If nothing else, it would be she, rising on that dawn, to guide them through another day.


	7. The Artisan of War

**Segment Seven; The Artisan of War **

**Covenant Ship Cluster **_**Illustrated Deliverance**_

**Covenant Cruiser **_**Inspirit Symbol **_

**November 7, 2552, Sol Relative Time **

Appointed Ship Master Okaen 'Shacallee thumbed the button on the sword in his hand, and watched as it activated. It had only been an hour, but he was worried. 'Shacallee didn't like being worried. Even after calling them when they failed to report in, he had gotten nothing back at all from the warriors he had sent down to see about the boarders. Where were they? Had they all been slain, perhaps, by overwhelming hordes of Brutes?

He only had ten Elites left outside the fighting – the ones that were hunting Brute pockets in the depths of the ship had been recalled for the breach. Small pockets of enemy could be dealt with, but a hole that gaping big was intolerable. He was taking them all with him, to assess what the situation really was. If the ship listed, the pilot's console unattended as it were, then the other ships could get out of the way. He just didn't have enough warriors to leave any behind – separating them out into smaller and smaller groups would be worse than taking them all along, seeing as there really was nothing else needing attendance outside the hull.

And if something came up, then surely the other three vessels could attend the problem well enough. 'Shacallee led the way, his mind awhirl with all the possibilities. Had he lost the ship? Or was the destruction absolute and equal? Would there be any enemy left? All his questions were answered outside the breach in the corridor he had only just come to in heading towards it all; a deformed, disarranged apparition came flailing at them, throwing ungainly long arms and claw like calcite fingers at the walls as it ran at them, gurgling incoherently.

Horror crept into 'Shacallee's very soul when he realized he recognized the scoring pattern on the armor it wore; he had known that warrior's _name_…

--- --- ---

Former Ship Master Rangor sat hunched on the floor, trying to think past the screaming pain on his face. Living without his eyes – literally, without them – had proven more interesting than he had ever hoped to endure. Yet there was something clawing at the back of his mind that he couldn't seem to identify.

He'd left something undone… no, that couldn't be right. The idea that there would be nothing he could do about any of it at all anyway never crossed his mind, even as it whirled, trying to find a track to follow so a complete, coherent thought might occur. Rangor could still hear the incoherent gasping and burbling of the ruined Brutes in the row of cells around him. For now, his physical circumstances just didn't quite add up.

Suddenly, at the beckon of a sound, the sound of an opening door, he stood up, and walked as though able to see the predetermined number of steps to the front of his cell. He counted them – twelve – but though he felt he could feel the imprint of the bars in front of his face in the air surrounding them, he didn't need to reach up and touch them with a hand to tell they were less than a foot from him. This acute understanding was not lost on him – he didn't know how he knew how far to walk, but even with his eyes he had been able to tell when something was that close to his face. It was an olden animal instinct his species had evolved with naturally. In fact he doubted he could have found a race without this sense.

Hoofbeats moved down the middle corridor, and paused when the angle became sufficient for them to see him standing there. Nearing him, the Sangheili paused about a yard back, just out of reach should he swipe at them. Rangor didn't know who it was, or why they had come, but he felt he understood the purpose of their combined presence here – to meet. He had a message for them.

For whom? The rational thought faded. For the one before him. Rangor's upper lip curled slightly. "Sangheili." It was the first time he had ever uttered the name without adding some form of insulting descriptive expletive.

"I am here." They too seemed to understand that he was not there to curse them out; that there was something that needed to be said. That he had something for them to hear, and it was important. Why he should share something of that quality was beyond Rangor… but he felt pressed to do so.

"The _Inspirit Symbol. _ What have you heard from her."

"Nothing." The Sangheili answered. The mystery between them – the first time an Elite had spoken with a Brute without expression of anger between them – seemed to cling, stubbornly.

"You should destroy her." Rangor heard himself saying. "You can't keep her anymore. She is too dangerous."

"I don't understand." The Sangheili appeared to be honestly listening to what he had to say. His tone told Rangor he truly expected to hear something of relevance… like why.

"Flood." Rangor's voice failed him, even as the foreign thought manifested as words. The proclamation came out as little more than a hoarse rasp. "Flood."

The Sangheili warrior recoiled in sudden wrenching freedom from the alien thrall. It was as if his mind had suddenly started working again at the reception of the word. Rangor sagged to the floor, feeling unearned exhaustion even as his own began to reel. That was possibly the most bizarre experience he'd ever had in his whole life. Leaning on the bars, he thought aloud to himself, "How… how… how could I know that??" Yet he had no answers… and he wondered if he ever would.

--- --- ---

'Lygotee heard bones crunch in terrifying surrender to pressure beyond their capacity to withstand, saw the spray of pulverized meat and blood, splinters of armor. Felt the wrenching, burning, clawing agony searing up his side from the infliction of the injury. Knew he was fixing to die. Fought for the next breath he already understood was useless to him anyway, even as the Flood combat forms swarmed past him, heedless to his pained cry. Soft, vulnerable infection forms slithered across the floor, making headway on his motionless position. He didn't want to become one of them… cold fear cinched on his torn gut, as he watched the pale creatures close in around him.

His rifles had spent, and there had been no more, his sword depleted completely before the rush of enemy had even finished deploying into their ship. Heaps of rotting flesh mingled with the fresher, some still warm, bodies of the Elites and Grunts come to deal with them. They had put up a marvelous fight, but in the end there had been too many. They had lost.

And right as he thought his end was upon him, the first brush of the touch of the nearest infection form on his arm, fire suddenly filled the air, choking them all of breath and burning everything with equal abandon. Had someone lit something flammable? Or had 'Lavuree gotten mad? 'Lygotee couldn't tell, but though the impeding infection had been postponed a bit with the form's bursting under the flame's onslaught, he too was now on fire, and the devouring element seemed unsatisfied to leave anything here as anything less than ash before it was released. He could see Flood forms, of all kinds, fall and melt into the inferno, saw a fellow Elite collapse to his knees, screaming as he fought off the assailing flames. Something exploded, as perhaps a Grunt's methane tank might, off to the right, and it flung everything from its company when it did so.

'Lygotee could take no more, but he couldn't even scream, even as he heard that beleaguered warrior gag as he inhaled a lungful of fire, searing them within his chest and sealing his own fate. He would suffocate, if he didn't burn to death first. 'Lygotee, choking on his unwillingness to follow that unfortunate warrior's chosen path, felt he was reduced to the same options – burn to death or suffocate. There simply was nothing to breathe, all air consumed by the flames around them.

When they subsided, the stars exploding in his vision had faded, but even as his oxygen-starved body found the first whiff of breathable air in the last ten minutes, his brain began to shut down for the lack. There was a partial, blurred memory of someone grabbing him and lifting him from the floor before he fully blacked out.

Wassal had never seen destruction so absolute – at the fall of one of his pack-mates, the tank ruptured and the contents exploded… that much was to be expected, that much pure methane coming in contact with oxygen. But at the same time, how and why it had blown outwards and so completely consumed the chamber was beyond him. Sizzling, trailing smoke and feeling very overheated and singed, Wassal had been at the edge of that explosion… those captured within it had all fallen, Flood and Covenant alike. One unfortunate Elite was no less than a lump of sizzling, charred flesh, very much dead where before he had only barely been robbed of his shielding. The Flood had all pretty much reduced to great amounts of coal, but now that stink was _visible_ and he had never been more glad he had on that mask.

Taking the initiative, Wassal called on several of his fellow Grunts, and had them help him go in and look for the ones lucky enough to have survived. Already the ones that had managed to keep their heads down were picking themselves up, and one or two of the Elites were grabbing living fellows and dragging them away, heading for various exits. It was time to leave; even without being told, Wassal understood that it was time to leave.

But the time in which to depart was small – if they intended to escape with their lives and not become Flood, they needed to evacuate the _Inspirit Symbol_ now… ten minutes from now that opportunity, that escape window, would close. Choking, gasping, some of them dragging for an injury, the survivors gathered their own and made as one for the bay by which many of them had come. From a crew of three hundred, there remained no less than fifty, but from within the melted, welded mass there was still sounds of Flood creatures, hammering their way through multiple hulls to get out. They had to hurry… time was running out.

"Keep up! Keep up! You no want be left behind!" Wassal urged, pushing the lagging back up with the rest. "You no want be turned into Flood."

Upon arrival into the bay, the hum of engines could already be heard to be changing. In the twenty minutes it had taken them to reach the bay, the next wave of Flood had broken through, and were already taking over the ship – to use it towards whatever end they thought would meet their needs. Aside from the copious amounts of Brutes that had been left in some of the corridors, there was no one aboard to resist them, though. Any pockets of Brutes that had expected to see Sangheili coming for them were shocked to discover Flood hot on their heels, chasing them down and consuming them, turning them into more Flood. But the ship still didn't have a full crew, even if it had once been fully manned.

Elites and Grunts alike piled into the ships, sealing them up and pushing out into vacuum to escape the death that awaited any who stayed behind. But even as they obtained separation from the ship, streams of plasma from the sister vessels poured down upon it, peeling back hull and searing deck after deck into naught but glittering vapor.

Access was denied them, as well, when they attempted to seek refuge aboard the _Ungracious Accolade_ . After sealing off the bay, a small party of heavily armed warriors stood to greet them one vessel at a time, making thorough inspections to ensure none of them were carrying a Flood infection. The process took hours to filter them all through, but once they were onboard, and proven, their first destination was the medical. As the last Phantom docked and came to rest, the last off the next to last vessel filed out of the bay, but when the occupants started to file off that final Phantom, a commotion began when someone tried to get past the checking detail without being inspected first.

Walking away, Wassal tried to close his ears to the sound of the plasma rifle firing, the thud of armored flesh smacking the deck plating bearing an absoluteness that could not be denied. No chances – no risks. The Flood could not be contained, so it had to be prevented, no matter the cost. And today, after surviving it all, someone had paid that unforgiving price, just a step from freedom.

--- --- ---

'Lavuree understood there was nothing that could be done for the Elite in her arms. The wound was too deep, too shredded. But as long as he still yet lived, she refused to let go, sure there had to be something she had missed, something else she could use to repair the situation. The energy levels necessary to heal the injury with her gift were unimaginable – there was only so much she could accomplish alone. And though she had known a small number of power based people, there were none here now.

Some had the gift. Some generated the power the gifted ones used. Without such a power base, the capability of the gifted individual was crimped. 'Lavuree couldn't take that as fact, though. As long as she had known him, 'Lygotee had held to the belief that anything was possible, and the idea had only been fortified upon discovery of not only her secret, but her gift. But if anything was possible, why were the methods always masked? 'Lavuree hated sitting idle, knowing, feeling, the life draining from her Commander.

Her gaze rose from 'Lygotee's still form when she felt the energies in the room shift, and her eyes followed an Elite she had seen only once before – on the bridge of the _ Inspirit Symbol_. The scoring across his armor vest were indicative of an attack from a Flood combat form, as were the deep, matching gashes across the parts of his chest that had not been covered by the vest. He limped, but he was upright, as if un-phased by the pain and hindered only by derangement of the muscle tissues. He refused a medic their attention, and stepped deeper into the chamber, as if looking for someone. He appeared to have spotted them, past 'Lavuree's position, when his gaze flickered across her, and paused there.

She didn't move, didn't speak, but instead of walking past, he walked up to her.

"I know you." He said.

"Ship Master." She said, barely audible. "You sent us to our deaths. But you didn't know. You couldn't have known."

He looked at 'Lygotee, then at her. "Your Commander has fallen?"

'Lavuree shook her head, fighting down a swell of emotion. "He lives as yet, but he will not last."

'Shacallee spared a moment for thought, studying the gaping wound in 'Lygotee's side. Fluids still wept from it, though the bleeding had been stopped, even as the broken bone shards and ruptured, shredded organs beyond them oozed for the exit made. He shook his head. "Perhaps you should spare him the pain."

'Lavuree snarled at him, then. "As long as he still draws breath I will do nothing but seek a method by which to heal him, Ship Master, understand that at least. I will not abandon my Commander, not for you, not for anyone else."

He met her gaze, then, unjudging. "And what method is it that you seek that you suppose would help a wound such as that?"

Her gaze softened. "Help me, and perhaps one will come to us."

'Shacallee sighed. "I am also wounded, little female. I have nothing to offer you."

Lifting a hand from 'Lygotee's chest, she offered it to him to take. "I can help you, but only if you help me too."

--- --- ---

"Anything?"

"No." Awrkon answered. "The survivors who escaped have all been cleared for medical attention and are receiving it now. But there remains nothing of the _Inspirit Symbol_. She's gone."

Till nodded. "Good. We don't need that again." He turned away, and walked down the ramp leading from the command platform, moving past the columns on either side towards the door leading off the Command Deck. Without summons, Awrkon turned and followed. It wasn't long before Till noticed, and he paused mid-stride to allow his friend to catch up before continuing. "You do not remain to mind the goings ons in my absence?"

Awrkon grinned at him, amused. "I follow where I am most useful. You look terrible. So I am going to ensure you are going to get some rest, before you drop."

Till laughed, lighthearted. "Ah, old friend, you never cease to amaze and annoy. I cannot as yet retire. But do not fear, I will – eventually."

Awrkon snorted, still grinning. "Eventually could be the moment you collapse in utter and total exhaustion, without will or wont to take one more step."

"You know me too well." Till complained.

"I know you well enough to watch out for you, friend." Awrkon told him. "You need it." The slap on Till's shoulder to accentuate the point was light, but it was still on his bad shoulder, and it caused Till to strain a grunt and recoil into the far wall. Awrkon immediately seized him, fearing he would hit the floor. "You are not well, friend."

"No… not when I am assailed on all sides by friend and foe alike. Some wish me to die, others make me wish I were dead. Or doped."

Awrkon laughed, and lifted him from the wall. "I know your weakness, brother, you needn't show it to me. Come – I will take you to your quarters."

Holding onto his useless arm with his good one, Till frowned down the hall. "Your intentions aside, your methods cannot be denied effectiveness. Were that I were not so impaired, you would encounter much better resistance."

"Boast, brother, if you may." Awrkon laughed. "I still have won."

Till had to smile, even as he shook his head. If there was one thing Awrkon was good at, it was coercion; even if Till – and practically every other warrior to test it – was the better in battle. Awrkon was useful, endlessly supportive of those who spent their energy striking down the enemy. It was part of why Till had taken the warrior with him in his ascension of Dial M'akamee's rank. Aside from being very good friends, Till knew he could count on Awrkon's wit to fortify any failing action. To date, the Elite had not failed him yet.

Till watched as crew moved past them, as the corridor fell behind them with their progress through it. He began to wonder what surprises still awaited them, and if they would be forced to sacrifice a ship for each incident. "Awrkon." He spoke.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Who gave us the intel that the _Inspirit Symbol_ was infected?"

Awrkon paused, his expression creasing with thought. "I… do not know. I will need to ask the warrior that relayed it to me."

"Word is that no one aboard had any time apart from the fighting to contain the infection to send a call. Is that not what you heard as well?"

"What I heard was similar, yes sir. Do you want me to investigate it?"

"Yes, but I would prefer to follow that investigation, rather than be confined to quarters." Till told him, casting him a brief glance. Awrkon smiled, and shook his head.

"You need to rest, Commander. You are not only holding to a number of injuries, you have not rested in too long. You have begun to drag – and your judgment has suffered for your deprivation. This is not an option, Till. You need to rest, and regain your wit, before something major happens and kills more of us."

Till could only heave a dejected sigh.

"I will call you when I feel you have rested enough to warrant rejoining us, Commander – fear not. You will have a full report of both the situation's progress as well as my investigation."

Till nodded. "Very well. I suppose being defeated by you is less painful than a Brute doing it, hm?"

Awrkon could only laugh.

--- --- ---

Light shone dim, from the left and above. It was a pleasant glow, much like the last dying embers of a real fire nested inside a real stone hearth. But though much of it was masked, the pain he could feel was very real, and he knew he was still alive.

The silence of the situation astounded him, though, as well as that he as yet retained possession of his own motor function; the air was clear and clean, scented lightly with lubricants, polishing oils and fresh blood. But there was no stench of Flood. The first emotion was fear – concern that not all was well. But this tempered to a more sable tone, more calm and wonder than anything else. He was alive – and for as far as he could tell, whole.

Enin 'Lygotee opened his eyes, and realized he was splayed across what felt like a medical flat – the healer's excuse for a bed. Gathering his wits, he turned his head, to see a familiar and welcome face; Rkwa 'Lavuree sat curled in a chair beside him, apparently in a corner of the medical bay where such clutter was permitted. She had her head down, though, and did not see him waken or move, but the moment the first thought of the relation of the circumstances to the one prior to her own wakening from the odd coma she had fallen into crossed his mind, her head rose, and she locked gazes with him.

A silent smile touched her features, but she neither imparted any thought nor spoke any words to him. 'Lygotee tested his limbs, found them sound enough, then tried to sit up – and while it hurt greatly to do so, it felt more akin to residual ache than inflicted pain, and this was soon proven when he realized he wore a bandage. Strange… he didn't recall actually being injured. Only overwhelmed. He slid from the flat to his hooves, and with one of 'Lavuree's hands on his elbow, he proceeded from the medical and down the corridor. It felt good to be in a moment of still and silence for a change, but instead of reveling in the fact that he lived still, he found himself dwelling on the losses of past battles… and mourning them.

'Lavuree either didn't notice or couldn't help this, and he was allowed to maintain whatever thought he conjured, for whatever purpose, from whatever source. Many good warriors had been killed, just keeping possession of the Command Station, and many more in leaving her. More still, he realized, with the loss of a ship.

'Lavuree had tried to tell them of each one, had tried to warn them, and no one had heard. While 'Lygotee listened, he realized with chagrin that he'd always expressed doubt, had required of her proof this time, and it nearly cost him his life… and hers, as well. Feelings of regret welled up on behalf of that, too, but he knew it was artificial when they recessed suddenly. He spared 'Lavuree a meek smile, but though she looked back, her own expression remained neutral.

When they arrived at his designated quarters, 'Lygotee expected 'Lavuree to see him in and then leave. Instead, she sat him on the bed – it was a real one, graciously – and then knelt before him. Slowly, she removed his armor from him, undressing his battle gear and setting it all aside as if in thought he meant to sleep in it. She was a peculiar female, but at times she did make sense. Under these circumstances, 'Lygotee wasn't sure if he understood or not, though. She finished with him, and began to shrug out of her own. 'Lygotee watched her in silence, finally beginning to grasp the situation.

Settling the last of her gear on top of the stack she had made of it all, 'Lavuree sat beside him, and leaned on his chest.

"Rkwa." 'Lygotee said, lifting an arm to hold her shoulders.

"Vorkimidea." She corrected him, quietly. "My name is Vorkimidea."

'Lygotee smiled. "Tiller of the soil, keeper of the land. Your family were farmers."

She nodded.

"You have come a long way, and proven much. We are fortunate to have you in company." 'Lygotee said. She looked up at his face, so he looked down to meet her gaze. "And I am fortunate to have ever known you."

--- --- ---

Till woke with a start, his pulse racing and his mind a blur. He sat up, and rubbed his face before looking around at the inside of his quarters, unable to make sense of what could have woken him. Everything was dark, still and quiet. The room was also empty save only himself, which didn't help his confusion any. Pulling into his armor, Till stepped out into the hall, straining to hear even the faintest of noises.

Yes… there is was. A soft, almost nonexistent rumble. It sounded like the noise made when something rolled across the hull, applying enough pressure to it to make little wrinkles. Turning to stride towards the Command Deck, he drew up short when he found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of a rather large Brute.

Till gave a startled yelp and backpedaled, clawing at his belt for his gun, but right as he got it detached from it's clip, he was snatched from the floor by his throat and held there. The sudden spasm of motion knocked the pistol from his grasp before he could tighten it, and the weapon clattered harmlessly to the floor beneath his feet. He caught the arm attached to the hand around his neck, and pried at it, wishing sorely he still had the use of his other arm. Almost casually, the Brute reached up and took his wrist, holding it away from his own arm.

Sensing that putting up a fight would only end him faster, Till held still for a moment, staring at the Brute's disfigured face as he tried to force air through his constricted windpipe. Oddly, the beast wasn't trying to crush it – yet. Till tested the grasp on his good arm's wrist, pulling fruitlessly against the much thicker creature's grip. It seemed to be made of iron, and he got nowhere.

"You are their Leader." The Brute said, quietly.

Till didn't answer at first, but he kicked out and thrashed when the Brute squeezed his throat for his trouble.

"Answer." The Brute told him, granting him air again.

Till sagged. "Yes." He rasped.

"Good." Rangor let go of his arm, and put him down again. "You will tell me everything I want to know."

Till stepped back, rubbing his throat. "Why would I tell you anything?"

"Because this is my cruiser, and you are at best but a guest aboard her. Do not think the brig will hold me. I know my own ship." Rangor told him. "I can go anywhere, do anything, and your pathetic attempts to stop me will all fail."

"What do you want?" Till asked. "Why didn't you kill me?"

Rangor cocked his head, baring his teeth. "Is it your wish to die?"

"Never." Till responded. "But I would expect no less from you."

"You underestimate me, Sangheili."

Till studied him for a moment, before squatting to reach for his pistol, but before he was quite there, Rangor suddenly stepped forward and put his foot on it, stopping him. He straightened, wondering just how much the Brute could see, with empty eye sockets like he had.

"Do not try my patience, Sangheili!" Rangor snapped. "Did you think I couldn't tell you were going to pick up that weapon?"

Till took a deep breath, and hooked the thumbs of his good hand on his belt. "I'm listening."

"You had better be." Rangor snarled, lowering his tone and volume again. "Now tell me our heading and velocity."

"Why would that be important?" Till asked, puzzled.

Rangor snarled at him, in warning. "Do not question me!"

"I don't know." Till admitted, becoming a little irate, himself. "I didn't ask."

"Fool. A Commander should always know where he is going and how fast. You will be caught unprepared if you do not." He smiled, baring his massive fangs. "Much like you were when you exited your chambers into this hall."

"How did you know where to find me?" Till asked.

Rangor's smile turned feral. "Your guard was kind enough to tell me."

"What have you done to him?" Till demanded, suddenly very angry. "If you have caused any one of my Elites any harm, I shall exact the same upon you."

Rangor chuckled, only. "You are all pathetic. It is a wonder the Prophets did not depose your sniveling kind sooner."

"There are many who wish they had – for different reasons." Till informed him. "Filling our heads with such abominable lies and treachery."

Rangor's smile faded, as his hairy lip dropped over his yellowed teeth. "Be what the Prophets may, that is not my concern. I have had much time alone to reflect, and there are things that must be done."

"What things?" Till asked.

"Your heading and velocity must be corrected. I am expected to report to the Prophet of Lamentations at a predetermined rendezvous point at a predetermined time. If I do not, you will all be destroyed."

"Why would you bother – why do you care?"

Rangor snarled at him. "Because I would be destroyed with you." He curled his toes through the handle of the plasma pistol, and lifted his leg to take it with a hand without ever bending over. He held it up for Till to see. "And I have unfinished business with the Prophet."


End file.
